


Hell is Other People

by coffeeandcas



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Angst, Bottom Will Graham, Cannibalism, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, First Time, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Scent Kink, Slow Burn, Therapy, Top Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-28 08:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15703860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: It starts out, as most epic romances do, with a single kiss.In the aftermath of Tobias Budge's demise, Will and Hannibal's relationship grows in intimacy. Will begins to realise that there may be no limit to Hannibal's powers of manipulation, yet craves the older man more and more as every day passes. Soon they learn what it's truly like to fall in love - and how much it can hurt.





	1. Blood

**Author's Note:**

> *pokes head into new fandom and waves shyly*

_ L’enfer, c’est les autres.  _ __  
_ Hell is other people. _ _  
_ __ \- Jean-Paul Sartre

*

Hannibal is sitting behind his desk when Will arrives. The door stands open, and Will almost feels intrusive stepping over the threshold. He’s used to being invited in, to having to wait his turn. Walking in unannounced feels like the height of rudeness, yet the moment demands it. He feels a chill when he does, when he surveys the scene and when his eyes fall on the man who normally welcomes him with a type of warmth only he can manifest. A warmth many people might interpret as cool detachment, but Will knows him better than that. Will knows him.

Hannibal turns, the light catching his profile, and stares at Will with an unreadable expression. It's as though he's never seen him before in his life. Will wants to ask if he's alright but it seems redundant, so he shoves his hands in his pockets instead. 

“I thought you were dead.” Hannibal’s words are flat, his tone reverent, his eyes barely wider than usual yet Will can tell he can barely believe what he's seeing. 

“Almost.” 

His hand stings and he clenches it into a fist at the reminder of the battle in Tobias’ basement. His head still pounds, more than normal, and he hasn't regained much of the hearing in his left ear yet. He will, he's been told, but he doesn't much care right now. It's just another inconvenience to add to the myriad of troubles he's already wading through on a daily – sometimes hourly – basis. What's one more string to his bow? He cringes at his own metaphor, thinking back to the cellist’s basement, and turns his attention to the room.

He wanders slowly across the polished floor, ignoring Jack at his six and the crunch of broken glass and splintered wood beneath his boots. Hannibal is still gazing at him strangely, and Will’s brow knits in consternation. What is he thinking? He's never seen Hannibal so dishevelled before and it's disconcerting. He's clearly taken a beating but judging by the twisted corpse on the floor, he gave more than he took. Blood streaks from the corner of his mouth down to his chin, a bruise blooms on the opposite cheekbone and he's cradling his left forearm in his right hand. His hair has been subjected to a quick taming yet it looks nowhere near as sleek and tidy as normal and Will thinks this is the most concerning fact of all. The man is normally groomed to perfection, but now he looks worn out, a little stunned, and is still pinning Will with that strange, calculating look. As though Will might be a ghost that’s crossed the threshold between this life and the next.

He perches on the edge of the desk, his good ear towards Hannibal, and crosses his ankles. Jack has wandered off to talk to a crime scene photographer. There's a body covered with a tarp somewhere off to Will’s right. He asks the redundant question anyway, mostly to fill the silence. 

“Are you alright?”

“I am. I believe my arm may need some stitches and I have a mild concussion. Nothing that I cannot take care of myself in my own home. Please don’t concern yourself.”

“You should go to a hospital,” The peculiar urge to reach out and touch Hannibal flares, as it has been doing over the last few weeks, and he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets to keep them confined. “Let them take care of you.”

“No.” Hannibal shifts in his chair and were Will not hyper-aware of his psychiatrist’s usual state of being, to an obsessive level, he would have missed the twinge of pain and the flinch of his fingers around the cut to his arm. “I abhor hospitals; I can manage. Thank you for your concern.”

“Yeah, I can’t exactly picture you in a backless gown. What happened here?” Will rubs the back of his neck, eyes skating feverishly across the scene. A fight, clearly. Two dead bodies. His head pounds. It takes him a minute to realise Hannibal is talking. “Sorry, what?”

“You were elsewhere just now,” Hannibal frowns at him. 

“No. My ear. The gun went off,” He rubs at his temple and it feels strangely numb yet oversensitive. Swallowing feels strange, as though he's half-submerged in water and every sound echoes like a whale’s cry. “They say I'll be fine.”

Hannibal stands with what looks like great effort and comes close to Will. Too close, it's too intimate. The CSIs would notice. Jack would notice, and would certainly comment, if not now then later. But Will can't seem to step away. Hannibal smells of sweat and tangy, bitter blood and it's yet another thing about his battered appearance that Will finds disconcerting. 

“You must visit the hospital. I'll drive you.”

“No!” Will is appalled at the very suggestion. Firstly, because he hates hospitals just as much as Hannibal clearly does, but secondly if anyone needs a doctor it isn't him. His own voice sounds oddly hollow to his own ears yet already better than before. He wonders if there's still blood in his ear or on his neck. He’d cleaned himself up in the car as best he could, but he’s not sure if he got it all. His head is pounding, and he rubs his brow. “I'm fine. I'll be fine. It's you I'm worried about.”

“In that case,” Hannibal is studying him like a scientist might, as though he's a rare butterfly pinned to cork beneath a shining microscope. “May I suggest we assuage both our worries and tend to each other. If you'd be so kind as to drive me home, you may assist with stitching up my arm.”

“Oh, I may, may I?” Will snorts, looks away, looks around the room at two CSIs who are watching them with twitching mouths. He looks anywhere in the room but at Hannibal. Beneath the corpse of Tobias Budge, a tacky puddle of drying blood creates a halo-like circle. He considers the alternative, the puddle seeping from Hannibal’s skull. It's an unpleasant image and he rubs the bridge of his nose. “I suppose so. You'll leave your car here?”

“And get it tomorrow. It's safe enough.” Hannibal gestures to the door. “Unless you have anything more to do here, shall we?”

Will lingers, explains to Jack where they're going, and joins Hannibal out by the car a moment later. For a reason he can't pinpoint, he feels both exhilarated and apprehensive about being alone with the older man tonight. He can't forget the look on Hannibal’s face when he first walked into the office. As though Hannibal was seeing a ghost. A ghost of someone he cared for very much. Or maybe a premonition of something still to pass.

The rain batters the windshield as they drive in silence and Will white-knuckles the steering wheel, lost in thought. He's driving to Hannibal’s house on autopilot, needing no direction and being offered none. Hannibal is sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, the belt resting across his chest and his injured arm clasped in his lap. His eyes are closed. Will almost swerves into the path of an oncoming car, distracted as he is by Hannibal’s profile and receives a grunt of displeasure for his efforts. He's relieved when they pull up at the house. 

The place is dimly lit when they arrive, and Will squints up at the windows as Hannibal unlocks the door. 

“Do you always leave the lights on when you're at work?”

“No.” Hannibal eases out of his coat and offers no further explanation. 

“Then who-”

“Will. Your coat.”

It takes him a moment to realise that Hannibal has his hand outstretched. He's taking in the elaborate decor of the hallway, the glitter of the chandelier and the glow of the wall sconces. This is more than he's ever known, so rich and decadent yet minimalistic and understated. He isn't sure how those words even work to describe Hannibal’s home yet they're all he can think of. He follows the older man obediently through the house until they reach the bathroom, and he's directed to sit on the edge of a claw-foot tub. But as Hannibal begins to ease himself out of his suit jacket with apparent discomfort, Will finds he can't just sit by and watch him struggle.     
“Here. Let me help.”

Feeling strangely awkward, he stands and helps Hannibal slide the thick fabric down his arms. He get a flat, slightly baleful look for his troubles but Hannibal acquiesces in silence. The waistcoat is next. Then the bloodstained white shirt, still crisp and finely pressed. Bruises bloom across pale skin, muscles moving fluidly beneath them; Hannibal is strong, solid, and Will has to fight off the bizarre urge to lean forward and press his mouth to the sculpted V at Hannibal’s hipbone. He had no idea the man hid such a body underneath his fine suits and sharp waistcoats, and now he wonders if he’ll ever truly be able to stop picturing it. His next therapy session will certainly be interesting. 

“Will?” 

He snaps to focus, and flushes hotly as he realises he's been staring. His glasses have a sheen of condensation on them and he takes them off, folds in the legs, places them safely in his pocket. Takes the small medical kit Hannibal is holding out to him and tries to focus on his work. Hannibal’s forearm is bare, bloody and sore with a deep laceration across it from the choke wire. Will cringes as he sees it, hating seeing the tanned skin marred in such a way. He cleans it with disinfectant, listening to the resulting hiss of pain, and furrows his brow in apology. Then it's time to stitch the wound up with a curved needle and catgut thread, and Will cringes as the sight of it, remembering. Before his eyes, he sees strings of stretched, bleached human intestines on racks, smells the strong chemical reek human flesh being preserved, and has to blink rapidly to clear his vision. 

“I'm not good at this,” he says, after Hannibal winces for the third time. 

“You have a steady hand.” It's said through gritted teeth and Hannibal’s expression is carefully blank. It's amusing, Will thinks, how much he doesn't want to come across as ungrateful even when in pain and being stitched up by someone who hasn't got the first clue what to do. He's more adept at witnessing the aftermath of bodies being taken apart than being integral in sewing them back together. 

They're standing very close to each other, Hannibal leaning against the sink with one hand and his other forearm raised helpfully to the height Will needs to work. The lighting in the bathroom is just bright enough for him to see, but just dim enough to make the entire experience feel intimate. Then again, he wonders as he works, he's not sure Hannibal invited many people into his home, into his bathroom, then strips off his clothing to allow them to help him. Hannibal had always seemed like the self-sufficient type. He wonders what he's done to be considered special. 

“There. You're done.” 

It's a botched job at best, but the laceration is no longer gaping and deep, although it's still an angry red at the edges. He wipes away the remains of the blood and glances up to find Hannibal watching him with a peculiar expression on his face. He speaks after a long moment. 

“You'd make a good surgeon.”

“I wouldn't. I'd be terrible. I’d kill more people than I’d save, I’m sure. Nothing compared to you.” The moment hasn't warranted a compliment yet he had offered one anyway. He shook himself silently, berating his obvious misstep. Hannibal probably considers unsolicited compliments the height of bad manners.

“I said good. Not excellent.”

Will laughs, and it dies away as Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “I should know by now not to expect anything but honesty from you, Dr Lecter.”

“I doubt you'd like me any other way, Will Graham.”

A moment passes between them, one that Will will look back on and remember the heat, the loaded silence, the way Hannibal’s eyes dropped to his lips for just a second. And the way he stepped forward, brushing a lock of hair away from Will’s temple. 

“You have some blood in your aural cavity,” Hannibal says, his voice quiet and low, smooth as silk. “May I?”

It takes a moment for an answer to come. Will has to swallow a couple of times to draw saliva into his dry mouth. 

“Yes,” He whispers back, expectantly, hopefully, yet he still jolts when Hannibal’s hand comes to rest on the back of his neck. 

“Be still.”

He’s gently scolded, then a warm washcloth is touched to his skin, below his ear, then upwards and he shivers at the intimate touch. Long fingers brush his hair out of the way, steady and deliberate, as Hannibal wraps the washcloth around a finger and gently wipes the blood from Will’s ear. His hearing is returning slowly, it feels less and less like he's underwater and, for one strange moment, he's sure Hannibal leans in. Inhales deeply. Scents him. 

“There. All done.” 

Will almost overbalances when Hannibal steps away; he hadn't realised how closely he was leaning into the warmth of the other man’s body and has to grip the smooth edge of the porcelain sink to steady himself. His blood pounds in his ears and his skin tingles from where Hannibal’s touches linger, phantom caresses that he finds himself craving more of. 

“You must stay here tonight,” Hannibal is saying, easing himself back into his shirt but leaving it hanging open. “It's late. I can cook for us.”

“The dogs…” Will rubs the back of his neck and sinks down onto the edge of the bathtub. “I can ask someone to look in on them.” Then he gestures vaguely at himself. “I don't have an overnight bag.”

It’s a poor excuse. Is it even an excuse? Will’s limbs are heavy with exhaustion and he can’t deny how good it sounds to just stay here, be cooked for and fall asleep. He imagines that even the guest bedroom has a soft comforter and pillows like clouds, sheets that feel like silk on his overheated skin. He doesn’t want to go home and sleep alone, as much as he loves his dogs. And while he’ll obviously be sleeping alone here, at Hannibal’s, he won’t be alone in the house. And just for once, that would be really nice.

“I have suitable attire. For you to sleep in, if not for dinner. I fear my clothing may run too large on you.”

_ I'll bet, _ Will wants to say.  _ Have you seen yourself?  _

He can picture those arms around him, locked around his waist, and imagines it feels nice. More than nice. Strong. Secure. Like he isn’t going to fall, and if he does then someone will catch him.  

But all he does is nod and follow Hannibal’s directions to go downstairs and make himself comfortable in the living room, which is dark and emotively lit, and exactly what he had come to expect from his psychiatrist. The room smells richly scented - lilies, he notes, turning to see an elaborate bouquet sitting proudly on the coffee table. He blinks at them, then turns away. He takes the liberty of approaching the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a finger of Scotch, hesitating before adding another, then runs his fingers across the beautiful, antique record player sitting nearby. A vinyl gleams on the turntable and the needle is sharp, glinting silver in the lamplight. It takes him only a second to reach out, lower it, and only a second longer before beautiful music fills the air. A woman, singing in what Will manages to identify as beautiful Italian, and her voice holds him mesmerised. 

He watches the vinyl turn, the sound washing over him as lulling him into a trance-like state, in spite of his dulled hearing. It makes him think of hot, oppressive summer nights and burning sun and violence. Blood. The stag. The smell of his own sweat. 

The scent of Hannibal’s skin. 

“Mirelli Freni.”

The words drift up from behind him and it should have startled Will, he was that deep in his concentration. But Hannibal’s voice seems to blend with the music and Will has to take a moment before opening his eyes, questioning. Waiting for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked. 

“Tosca. A personal favourite. Do you like it?”

“I don't understand it,” he confesses, watching as Hannibal's gaze drops to the glass in his hand. He grips it a little tighter, feeling self-conscious and wondering if helping himself was rude, then Hannibal moves towards him. He's changed out of his crumpled, bloodstained shirt and is in a fitted sweater which hugs his chest and biceps, and Will averts his eyes, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“You do,” Hannibal murmurs to him, voice an octave loser. “Listen harder.”

There's a hand on the small of Will’s back and the space between them seems to have diminished to barely than a few inches. Will finds himself unable to look away from Hannibal's captivating gaze as Mirelli Freni continues to sing to them, serenading them, and he wants to close his eyes, to melt into Hannibal, to let the music wash over them and carry them both away. He wants to say something sharp and witty, sarcastic, to bring that faintly pained expression onto the older man’s face whenever Will makes a deliberate barb designed to rattle him. But he can’t. He’s listening and finding himself swept up in words that he fails to understand, in Hannibal’s eyes, in the intensity of the moment. The words still lack meaning to him completely, impossible to translate, yet suddenly he feels an overwhelming sense of clarity as he inhales deeply and the scent of Hannibal’s cologne wraps around him like a cloak, tempting and constricting and dangerous. He hears passion. Love. Loss. Tragedy. Desire. And he sees it all reflected back at him in Hannibal’s intense gaze. The hand on his back pulls him an inch closer and now they're sharing a breath. Cinnamon toothpaste and Scotch and stale mint. Fear and longing and everything in between. 

Hannibal studies him for a long, powerfully intimate moment and for a second Will allows his own gaze to drop to Hannibal’s lips. To wonder, not for the first time, how he kisses. With power and control, surely. With passion. With dominance. With the desire to own, to claim, to take. To possess. The opera singer in the background gathers gravitas, her last trembling note a chilling climax. Then Hannibal leans forward, his hand cupping Will’s jaw ever so gently, and presses a kiss to his forehead. 

Will closes his eyes. Wonders if it's real. Waits for more with lips parted. But he's left cold, the touch of skin on skin falls away. And when he dares open his eyes again, a long moment later, Hannibal is gone. All that's left is the rustle of static from the record player and the smooth, cool glass beneath his own trembling fingers.   



	2. Sweat

Will wakes long into the night to see the dark shape of a stag standing over him. He remains pinned to the sheets for a moment, questioning his lucidity. The stag’s vast antlers almost touch the ceiling and it holds a mournful air, sorrow in its gleaming eyes. Will pushes himself up onto an elbow, sweat-drenched sheets sticking to him, and reaches out to touch it. The stag gives him a reproachful look then turns, making it's slow way towards the door and out of the bedroom, leaving Will sagging against the bedsheets in a mixture of relief and loss.

When he refocuses, he can't help but notice the bedroom door still standing ajar and a frown pulls at his brows. Did he leave that open? He knows he didn't, that he closed it after bidding Hannibal goodnight, and he isn't the sort to leave bedroom doors open in other peoples’ houses. That would potentially offer an invitation he isn't sure he wants to extend. Did the stag leave it open? No - he chastises himself immediately, tugging at his damp hair. The stag isn't corporeal. It couldn't do such things. He mustn't allow himself to consider the possibility that it could.

His skin is greasy and he scrubs a hand down his face, wincing as his fingers come away shiny with oil. If he were at home he would be getting up and going in search of a shower, pushing away curious wet noses and negotiating a sea of wagging tails. But this is Hannibal’s house. And he isn't sure which option the other man would consider more rude: wandering the halls in the middle of the night or further soiling the thousand-thread-count imported sheets with his sweat and then lying in it until the morning. He’ll smell ripe if he does that, and no doubt the assault on Hannibal’s keen sense of smell would be an insult in itself.

He lies there for a moment longer, allowing his heartbeat to return to something closer to normal, then sits up and swings his legs down. The polished wood of Hannibal’s guest room floor is cool beneath his burning skin and he relishes the touch. He wonders what time it is. There's no clock in the bedroom and his watch had been smashed in the struggle with Tobias, so he has to rely on the outside light to give him some clue. He parts the heavy curtains and looks out. The moon hangs low in the sky, a blood moon flanked by a scattering of stars, and he watches it for a moment, entranced.

He liberates a fresh, clean pair of pyjama pants from the drawer in the guest room, hoping Hannibal won't mind. He can explain in the morning, tell him that his nightmare and subsequent vision upon waking had his clothing stuck to him with sweat. Maybe he won't mention the vision, on second thought. The pyjamas are soft, black cotton with a thick grey waistband, and he allows the fabric to flow through his fingers for a moment. These probably cost more than every item of clothing he owns put together. But God, they feel so comfortable. He slips out through the open bedroom door, bypasses Hannibal’s room, and heads for the bathroom.

The shower runs hot, hotter than he's used to at home, and his skin reddens beneath the stream. He uses a minuscule amount of Hannibal’s shower gel - cinnamon and clove, a rich, masculine scent that he's come to associate so intrinsically with his psychiatrist - and watches it lather on his skin, stark white against his tan. He inhales deeply, breathing in steam and the heady fragrance, and blinks his eyes open at the shocked realisation that his cock is stirring between his thighs. He's not hard, not even close, but there's a tingle of arousal there that he's never felt before in Hannibal’s presence - or as close as this is. Somehow, this feels even more intimate than the time he does spend with the older man. He's nude in Hannibal’s house, only a few doors away from him, swathed in his scent… He needs to curtail this line of thinking. His arousal has built to a full glow now and he's no longer fully soft.

Abruptly, spooked by his own body, he turns the water to cold and the shock of it makes him gasp audibly. The sound is startlingly erotic and he hopes Hannibal isn't listening from outside the door. And that his walls are thick enough, if he's lying in bed awake. He steps from the shower, relieved that his traitorous body has decided to calm itself, and dries himself with a fluffy towel that feels like a cloud. Damn Hannibal and his taste for the finest things life can offer. His towels at home feel like sandpaper in comparison.

He pads back down the hall, dressed now in a fresh pair of pyjama pants, and he's just passing Hannibal’s room when a sound draws his attention. He moves on autopilot towards the bedroom door - the door he's certain was closed when he passed it not ten minutes earlier - and, feeling voyeuristic, looks through the gap into the room.

It takes his eyes a moment to adjust, and when he does he blinks, frowns, and tries to parse what he's seeing. He imagined Hannibal would be lying in bed asleep, draped in expensive sheets or maybe standing by the window. He imagines Hannibal to be a night owl, spending a lot of time lost in thought, and it wouldn't be a shock to find he barely sleeps at all. Or perhaps he's not here at all, maybe he's gone downstairs for a drink and that explains the open door.

But Hannibal isn't asleep, nor is he wandering about the room or notably absent. He's kneeling on his bed, facing the headboard, and Will squints to try and focus. What's he doing? His torso is bare and as Will’s gaze travels lower he frowns. Hannibal’s hand is cupped in front of him and his hips are moving gently and… oh. _Oh._

With a shock that jolts his entire body, Will realises exactly what he's witnessing. Hannibal is masturbating. Touching himself with clear intent and, if the newly opened door is anything to go by, he wants an audience. He wants Will to see him. To watch. His fingers grip the doorframe so tightly he almost leaves indents in the polished wood. He should go. Should turn around and bolt back to his own room. The guest room. Whatever. He should _not_ still be standing here, he should have gone the moment he realised what he was seeing. And yet here he remains, wide-eyes and pink-cheeked, with his own cock thickening between his thighs at the sight of the rhythmic movements of Hannibal’s hand. He presses closer in spite of himself and watches.

Hannibal is beautiful in the light from the moon, skin stretched deliciously over firm muscle and Will can't help but want to press his lips to the curve of his bicep, the flat plane of his pecs, the arc of his shoulder. One strong hand grips the headboard, steadying himself, while the other moves across his length in a slow, deliberate rhythm, one designed to heighten the pleasure slowly rather than chase an imminent climax. The view from this angle isn't ideal but Will can see he’s thick, long, bigger than average. Hannibal is holding himself in a tight grip, his whole palm massaging his shaft, and it must feel incredible. Will’s breath feels too warm in his lungs, scorching his throat. He grips the doorframe tighter, partly to steady himself but also to give his hand something to do as its threatening to move of its own accord. Where to, he isn't sure. To push the door open and walk in perhaps, or to reach down and cup himself. Either possibility is likely and he can't let himself do it, so he stands there and holds on. And he watches.

A low hiss of breath escapes Hannibal through clenched teeth and his head tips back to expose the column of his throat. His skin glistens in the moonlight, bathed in a light sheen of sweat. Will breathes in deeply, imagining he can smell the arousal coming off the other man, and swallows audibly but Hannibal doesn't move or seem to hear him. His hand continues to work his cock faster now, thumb caressing the head which glistens with fluid. Will can't tear his eyes away from it, wants more than anything to know what it tastes like. He wants to bury his face in Hannibal’s groin, feel his velvet-soft skin of his cock beneath his lips and the thick, dark hair between his legs against his skin. He wants to inhale the scent of his arousal, to know what he smells like during sex. He wants to taste his sweat, to lap at the bead of precome at the head of his dick. He licks his dry lips and watches.

All too soon, Hannibal is coming. His shoulders lock up first, then the muscles in his forearm, and his strong thighs tense and flex as he thrusts his hips forward, gasping as his orgasm washes over him. Three thick pulses of creamy come coat his hand and the low groan that accompanies his climax sends sparks of desire down Will’s spine. His own cock thickens even more, a hard line in his pyjama pants now and he has to focus hard on not reaching down to stroke himself. On the bed, Hannibal is working himself through the aftershocks, his breaths coming as low gasps. His hand glistens with the evidence of his release and his head is tipped forward now, watching himself as his strokes slow and eventually stop as his breathing slows and the movements of his ribs become less pronounced. He releases himself and that's Will’s cue to make a hasty retreat. Now that Hannibal is less distracted all it would take for him to realise Will had seen him would be for him to turn his head and…

Cool brown eyes stare out at him, shining in the moonlight, and Will’s breath leaves his lungs in a low sigh. It's too late to retreat now, to run back to his room and hide, to pretend he's seen nothing. There's a lump in his throat preventing him from speaking, stopping his apologies in their tracks. Not that he wants to apologise for what he's just witnessed. He's feeling an even stronger pull towards Hannibal now, as they stare at each other in the dark, wanting to move forward into the room and… And do what? The realisation of exactly what he wants to do brings colour to his cheeks and distracts him so much that he barely notices the creak of the bed or Hannibal crossing the polished floor towards him.

He wants to take hold of Hannibal’s wrist and lick the come from his hand. He wants to know what it tastes like. He _wants_ …

“It's rude to stare, Will.” Hannibal murmurs, his voice free of reprimand. The scent of his release coils up between them, thickening the air, and arousal flares again between Will’s legs. Hannibal’s gaze has him pinned in place, probing, searching, and he feels as though he's forgotten how to breathe under the weight of it.

“I used your shower gel,” he says lamely, clutching onto the only words his brain can provide. It seems to have gone offline, leaving him entirely defenceless at Hannibal’s mercy, but he's powerless to do anything to bring it back to life.

In response, Hannibal says nothing but he leans in, one hand coming to Will’s hip and gripping him with a soft, deliberate touch that he wants to lean into. He leans down, his lips inches from the pulse point at Will’s neck, and inhales deeply. Will copies him by instinct and scents the bitter tang of semen, the saltiness of drying sweat. The underlying heat of the shower gel that now stains them both.

“You did,” Hannibal whispers, his breath ghosting across Will’s skin. “It suits you. My scent on your skin.”

His other hand comes up, and from the corner of his eye Will can see a gleaming streak of drying come across the back of it, then crooked fingers stroke once across his collarbone as Hannibal leans in a little closer, barely any space between them at all now. He breathes in deeply, scenting, possessive, and Will inclines his head to allow him better access. Time seems to have stopped. The world has ceased to turn. All that remains is him, Hannibal, and the air between them. He considers turning his head, leaning in for a kiss. It feels like the right moment, and yet…

“Go back to bed, Will.” Hannibal presses gently into the touch on his hip, nudging him backwards and out into the hall. “You'll sleep better now, I'm certain of it. Free of nightmares.”

Then he leans in close, presses a kiss to Will’s forehead for the second time in twelve hours, steps back and closes the bedroom door without a second glance. And Will is left standing in the corridor, heart pounding and skin tingling from the phantom imprint of Hannibal’s lips.

What the hell is he getting himself into? And what the hell just happened?

 

•••

 

Hannibal is both right and wrong in his ascertain. The rest of Will’s night is blessedly free of nightmares but he certainly doesn't sleep better. He doesn't sleep at all. He tosses and turns, staring at the wall separating him from Hannibal and trying to work out what happened between them in the bedroom doorway. He watched Hannibal masturbate, that's what happened. He violated the other man’s privacy and it's a shameful thing to admit. And yet, he's certain that a silent invitation was extended to him in the form of the open door. Should he have gone in? Is that what Hannibal wanted? No, he counters, surely not. If so, their eyes would have met much sooner and he would have seen some sort of sign that he was welcome. So the only conclusion he can come to is that Hannibal wanted him to watch.

Why? What does Hannibal want? Is this some sort of cat and mouse game for him or does he want something more? One night of meaningless sex? That seems unlikely. From what he knows of Hannibal, the man doesn't seem like the type to have a one-night stand, least of all with someone he has personal ties to. So, what then? Does he want to date Will? The possibility seems incomprehensible. He can't imagine Hannibal dating anybody. Will turns over in bed, the sheets like silk against his overheated skin. And if by some incredibly rare chance Hannibal _does_ want to date him, what does he, Will, want? He can't deny that they've become close lately. Very close. But is there romance there? It isn't a word he associates with their relationship, but maybe he could. In time.

They don't speak of it the next morning. Will waits until the enticing aroma of coffee winds its way up the stairs then dresses at a glacial pace. He's nervous, hasn't a clue how to handle things when he sees Hannibal. Should be mention what he saw? What he stood there and _watched?_ Will Hannibal mention it? Perhaps he's angry with him, though that's unlikely. Anger is the very last emotion Hannibal was exhibiting last night. Lust, perhaps. Want, desire, dominance, possessiveness, but certainly not anger. Will is angry enough at himself for both of them. And a little angry with Hannibal. Was that orchestrated, leaving the door open like that? Had he heard Will in the shower and saw an opportunity to have a little fun? What he had been doing _did_ look like fun…

God. Will scrubs a hand over his face and gazes at his reflection in the full-length mirror. He's already lingered up here long enough time to face the music. With his latent irritation and potent confusion swirling just below the surface (he's shelved the burning sense of _want_ at the back of his mind to be strategically ignored for now) he descends the stairs slower than usual and heads for the one place he knows he’ll find Hannibal: the kitchen.

The man stands with his back to Will, chopping something and all his focus seems to be on his work. He has a white apron tied around his waist and he's in red and grey tweed pants and a crisp white shirt. He's making breakfast, and the kitchen smells delicious. He sees the exact moment when Hannibal realises he's arrived; it's a slight stiffening of his shoulders, an incline of his head. Unsure of what to say or how to behave, Will says nothing, just stands and watches him cook. Tinkling piano music plays in the background from a hidden sound system and Will cocks his head to listen.

“Beethoven?” He guesses carelessly and is rewarded with a pained, reproachful look.

“Sometimes I think you say these things just to upset me.” Hannibal pulls a chair out and gestures for Will to sit. “Good morning. Now, try again.”

“Bach? Surely Bach.” Will is running out of ideas and Hannibal looks downright appalled now, the furrow of his brow and the widening of his eyes becoming more pronounced. Will hides the urge to smother a grin behind his hand.

“Rachmaninov,” Hannibal says tersely, turning and stalking back to the kitchen, returning a moment later with two plates in his hands and his apron discarded. “I hardly think you deserve this.”

A plate of Eggs Benedict appears in front of Will and his mouth waters at the sight. He's desperate to dive in, but his manners keep him waiting until Hannibal has refilled their coffee and taken his own seat. Or rather, his knowledge of the importance Hannibal places on manners is what keeps him from starting to wolf down his food like a starving man. He's tested the other man’s patience enough this morning already.

“Did you sleep well, Will?” Hannibal asks conversationally, settling into his seat and smoothing a napkin across his knee. It amazes will how formal even breakfast at Hannibal’s house is - yet, he surely should expect nothing less. Then, after a pause, Hannibal continues, “At least, in the end?”

Will swallows a chunk of sourdough toast and manages not to choke. He nods vigorously, sipping orange juice that tastes freshly squeezed. “Yes. I mean, no. I didn't sleep at all, actually. Did you?”

He casts Hannibal a furtive look. This is the opening to discuss what happened, and he's referring to Hannibal. Whatever the older man decides to do, Will shall follow. Whether that means ignoring it completely (the easy choice) or dissecting in finite detail exactly what occurred between them last night (a choice that makes Will’s heart pound and his mouth run dry).

“Very well,” Hannibal sips his coffee delicately and pins Will with an unreadable look. “But then again, I always do sleep exceptionally well after an orgasm.”

And there it is. The acknowledgement. Right there in the middle of the table. But of course Hannibal, damn him, has volleyed the ball straight back into Will’s court and now he hasn't the faintest idea of what to do with it apart from to drop it and run off screaming. But that wouldn't exactly be polite. The sight of Hannibal pleasuring himself was… Will swallows, hard, and watches Hannibal watch the movement of his throat. It was incredible if he were being honest with himself. And his only regret is not pushing open the door and asking to join in. He doesn't imagine the opportunity will present itself again for a very long while.

“As do I,” he finds himself saying in a hoarse, husky whisper and Hannibal’s brow arches in interest.

“I see. Then forgive me, I believe your lack of proper rest is down to my neglect.”

He finishes his coffee and pushes his chair back. When he bends to take Will’s empty plate, he leans in close as he does and Will can't help but breathe his scent in deeply. Cinnamon and cloves. The very scent on his own skin, and one he now struggles to separate from the sight of Hannibal’s arousal. He doesn't lean in closer, but it's a struggle not to. When he speaks, he's so close that his breath ruffles the hair behind Will’s ear.

“Perhaps next time I won't be so selfish.”

Then he's gone, walking away into the kitchen with their plates and Will gapes after him, hands in fists on his thighs and chest so tight it's difficult to draw breath. He's never felt so equally drawn to someone and terrified of them, never wanted someone so badly yet been afraid to reach out and take what he desires. The low piano music plays in the background, attempting to lull him into a sense of security, but he's never felt less safe in his life. It's as though he's standing on a precipice, looking over the edge, and Hannibal Lecter is extending a hand to him in an attempt to pull him into his arms. And over the edge.

“I must go, I'm afraid.” Hannibal is back and Will blinks, startled. “I promised Jack a full statement on my altercation with Tobias Budge. An unfortunate outcome and I do regret it. But rather him than me.”

He fastens the button on his suit jacket, hand flinching slightly as the movement no doubt drags on his stitches. He didn't seem to be having any trouble gripping the headboard last night, Will remembers. And absurdly he blushes scarlet right to the tips of his ears.

“Yes. Fine. I should go, too.”

He pushes the chair back too quickly and the legs screech on the wooden floor, making them both wince. He needs to get out of here, to collect his thoughts and spend some time alone with the dogs. Without the shadow of Hannibal looming over him, distorting his wants and desires. He's aware of the older man’s eyes on him as his coat is held out to him and he's helped into it. Hannibal smoothes it down across his shoulders, the touch lingering and Will’s skin tingling beneath the multiple layers of fabric even when the touch is long gone.

He's halfway down the steps when Hannibal’s voice halts him and he turns. He barely has time to blink, to register how close the older man is, when a warm hand cups his chin and he's kissed on the mouth, gently yet with intent. It's brief, lasts less than a second, then Hannibal has turned his back and is walking back up the steps and into his house, closing the door with one last glance at Will, standing motionless with shock on his front steps.


	3. Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated. Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and left kudos so far!

As the sound of Will Graham’s car retreats into the distance, Hannibal stands motionless in his kitchen cursing himself. That had been a serious lapse in judgement, kissing Will on his doorstep like a foolish teenager unable to control his urges. In another fit of emotion, he slams his palm down onto his kitchen countertop, the sound echoing and the force ricocheting up his arm - the arm which Will had dutifully stitched up last night as per his request. It throbs in protest and he bites back a snarl of pain and irritation. He doesn't lose control like this. He normally has such a firm handle on his emotions that they barely register beneath the surface unless he chooses to allow it. Letting Will Graham into his life seems to be having an effect on him, and he's not certain whether it's one he likes. 

He knows Will both likes and loathes him. He's drawn to Hannibal like metal to magnet, and he can see the internal battle that rages within Will whenever they get too close. Last night had been a prime example of that battle and he knew Will wouldn't sleep a wink after witnessing what Hannibal carefully designed for him to witness. Just thinking about it now sends heat curling down his spine. 

Hannibal’s own feelings towards Will are complex and convoluted. He can't rid his mind of the image of Will, standing in his doorway wearing his pyjama pants and nothing else, a mangled expression of shock and arousal glittering in his eyes. His knuckles had been white from gripping the doorframe and he had been thick and hard between his legs, a damp spot on the expensive cotton from the wet tip of his cock straining against the fabric. Hannibal could smell Will’s arousal during his own orgasm, knew he was being watched and the effect he was having on the younger man. It's what had pushed him over the edge in the end. The bitter tang of precome and sweat laced with Will’s pheromones, so strong he could almost taste it. And the beautiful scent that had risen from him when Hannibal leaned in close to scent his skin. Pure want. The remnants of confusion and concern lingered, but the overriding emotion crashing through Will at that moment had been desire. Lust. A burning passion that Hannibal knew would override all of Will’s other senses if he had reached for his hand and drawn him into the bedroom with him. 

But that hadn’t been his design. He wanted Will to have a taste, just a light flavour of what could be, an idea of what they could mean to each other. He wanted to drip-feed the suggestion to Will with light touches and intimate kisses to his skin, let Will alone afterwards to ruminate on what it all means and come to his own conclusions. And Hannibal knows already what those conclusions will be. Whatever Will’s fractured mind tells him, his body and soul cry out to Hannibal in a way neither of them can ignore for much longer. He imagines tasting Will’s sweat, feeling his muscles move under his hands, tracing the shape of his erect cock and heavy balls with his tongue, dipping lower to taste the most intimate part of him. Bringing Will to a shattering orgasm using just his fingers, his untouched cock pulsing on his stomach, the sharp scent of semen filling the air as helpless cries leave his lips. Will allowing it all to happen with hopeless abandon, lost to Hannibal’s mouth. 

He walks the line daily between being intrigued and entranced by the young man and wanting to know what his blood would taste like. Either way, he's an obsession. An addiction. One Hannibal can't see himself being able to give up until he's consumed Will entirely. One way or another. 

He surveys his house once more, the ghost of Will Graham standing in the kitchen this morning, staring at him as though they had never met before. The appalling words that had flowed from his lips and the spark of irritation that lingers even now. 

“Bach,” he spits to himself as he turns off the music. “ _Beethoven_. That young man needs some guidance if he's going to survive in this world.”

In _his_ world is what he truly means. Will is doing a fine job of surviving in his own. Not good, not great, just fine. And fine can go either way with just the right amount of pressure. All he needs to decide is which way to push Will. Back into the safety of his own existence, or further towards Hannibal and the unknown. 

Pulling on his coat and adjusting the collar, he reaches for his keys then remembers with a jolt that the Bentley is back at his office and he's now stranded. Will Graham is affecting his concentration much more than he would prefer and, cursing low in Lithuanian, he calls a car service.    
  
•••   
  
Will almost crashes the car into a ditch on his way home. Then into a tree. Then into another driver who he thinks gives him the finger in the rear view mirror. He deserves it - his attention is anywhere but on the road. He keeps reliving the moment over and over again, his mind throwing him back to Hannibal’s steps and to that kiss. His lips had tingled in the aftermath as though he had received a static shock. Hannibal hadn't even given him a chance to react: he had turned and walked back into the house as though he was Will’s partner of ten years and was bidding him goodbye as he went off to work. The simplistic nature of it all is what he's finding so startling. 

In the dead of night, when he had been lying wide-eyed with the image of Hannibal pleasuring himself burned into his retinas, he had allowed himself to imagine their first kiss. He had thought it would be passionate. Heated. Charged with a desperation borne of the dance they've been doing around each other for weeks. Or perhaps slow and languid, a gentle press of lips turning to more. Hannibal’s hands gripping his hips and pulling him close, himself capitulating yet demanding more with fingers combing through hair and twisted in shirt sleeves. Not the chaste, sweet, barely-even-counted-as-first-kiss kiss. He doesn't quite know what he would do if he had the chance to do it all over again, but the point is that he doesn't. He feels…

Disappointed. That's the overriding emotion now. Shock had given way to anxiety, worry that he hadn't reacted appropriately (was there an appropriate way to react?), but now he's feeling hollow with disappointment. As though he let a chance slide by him somehow, even though their first kiss should be the gateway to something new not a missed opportunity. But what was that a gateway to? What does Hannibal even want from him, beyond an absurd game of cat and mouse? And what happens when the mouse is finally caught? Cats eat mice, everybody knows that. Is that what Hannibal wants to do to Will? Devour everything he is then spit out the remaining bones, leaving him in pieces after he's had his way? He doesn't know how he would recover from that, if what occurred between them was nothing more than a passionate fling ending with Hannibal discarding him like yesterday's newspapers. He doesn't bond with people easily, never has. But something is being forged between him and his psychiatrist that isn't friendship, isn't romance, is something fluid and malleable, as impossible to pin down as cigarette smoke and ten times more poisonous. 

But as the smoker grows to be dependent on the nicotine, Will grows to need Hannibal in his life more and more. He never thought the basis for their relationship would be one of sanity and sense, would never dream to be so naive. He blinks at the image of Hannibal pulling away from him, eyes opening slowly, leaving his lips tingling and his heart pounding in his ears. The cool air blooming in the widening gap between them. The look of surprise that crossed Hannibal’s face, as though he had been as stunned by his own actions as Will. And that's a fascination in itself. Hannibal Lecter, the poster child for control and domination, surprising himself. Possibly for the first time. 

He has no classes to teach today. He has a lot of work to do though, prep for his lessons tomorrow and he had planned to take the dogs out and then go fishing. He wanted to catch enough to put in his freezer and keep him going should the weather turn or his time become sparse. And he's almost home. Five minutes from the house. 

He needs to stop thinking about Hannibal. He needs some space, some time alone to process everything. His mind is too clouded right now, from the case and from the kiss and everything in between. He's got a headache and a hard-on, could quite happily murder his psychiatrist and feel no remorse, and to make matters worse he realises he ran out of coffee three days ago and still hasn't been to the store. He should go to the goddamn store. 

But fuck it. 

Earning himself multiple rude gestures and loud honks from appalled drivers, he swings the car around in an abrupt U-turn and heads back towards Baltimore.    
  
•••   
  
“What the hell was that?” 

Will crashes through the door and Hannibal has the good grace to look startled for just a millisecond before he schools his expression into something more neutral. He’s bent over his desk studying some papers and he straightens with them held lightly in one hand. 

“Will. I might have been with a patient.”

“You weren't,” Will says hotly, even though he honestly hadn't a clue. He doesn't think he would care even if Hannibal had been mid-session. He grabs the door on its backward swing towards him - it had bounced off the wall, rattling the two pictures in their square frames - and slams it with force. “And you didn't answer me. What the hell was that all about?”

“You'll have to be more specific. I'm afraid I don't-”

“Stop playing these fucking mind games!” Will explodes, fury colouring his cheeks and making his eyes sparkle. Hannibal makes a noise of disapproval at his curse which only fuels him further. “Stop treating me like some child you're trying to control!”

Hannibal doesn't say anything for a moment and Will breathes heavily into the silence, waiting. 

“You're angry with me.”

“Yes! I am!”

“Why?” Hannibal’s gaze betrays nothing. “Did I misread your desires?”

“No! Yes… I don't know!” Will clutches at his hair, feeling wrong-footed and furious about it. “You kissed me like I was your damn wife!”

“And you didn't like it.” 

Hannibal’s voice is flat, devoid of all emotion yet Will can tell there's disappointment hidden there. Maybe a little hurt, too. And in spite of his anger, he feels a twinge of remorse. He hadn't meant to hurt Hannibal. Not entirely. 

“It's not that. I did like it. Very much.” He tries to collect his thoughts unsuccessfully. They're skittering away from him and retrieving them is like herding cats. He struggles to form a sentence coherent enough to explain whats going on in his mind. “It just wasn't how I pictured it.”

There's a loaded pause, then Hannibal says, “I see.” 

“Oh you do, do you?” Will snaps, his patience hanging by a thread. He wants to cross the room and either grab Hannibal by the throat and strangle him or grab him by the lapels and kiss him senseless. He remains rooted to the spot because he genuinely doesn't know which one he would do if given the chance. 

“Yes. I believe I do.”

Hannibal places the papers down onto his desk and advances on Will, his expression changed in ways that would be invisible to a man who doesn't know him well. To anyone else but Will. It looks predatory now, laced with mischief, the cat playing with the mouse. Next should come the meal. Will takes one step back, then another. Then a third and feels the shelves of the bookcase against his back, bringing him up short. His breath is quick, shallow. Not panting but close enough. The curls of his dark hair stick uncomfortably to the back of his neck. Hannibal keeps coming, aware that Will’s retreat has been brought to an abrupt halt, until barely six inches separate them. 

“You ask me not to treat you as a child. And yet you storm in here in a fit of temper, acting just like one. That is rather unfair, Will, to ask me to treat you differently than you behave.”

“And you? You're behaving like a manipulative shrew. Should I treat you as such?” He forgot to take his glasses off and leave them in the car, and now they fog up with a combination of his sweat and  Hannibal’s breath. 

“Is that how I'm behaving, Will? Or is that just how you see me?”

They're closer still, now. The rapid rise and fall of Will’s breath could definitely be thought of as panting. Hannibal, as always, is unruffled. 

“More mind games,” Will’s voice is husky with a combination of rage, frustration, and something darker which makes him want to pull Hannibal close, to allow him to strip him of his clothing, to lie on his black silk sheets and cry out with carnal pleasure. “You want me to see you the way I do. It's your design.”

“You compare me to the criminals you seek to catch,” Hannibal moves yet closer and his voice is barely more than a murmur. “Do you not realise how much that wounds me?” 

He raises an arm, placed his hand on the shelf next to Will’s head. He's almost boxed in and he can feel a bead of sweat making its slow way down his spine. 

“It doesn't,” he hears himself as though from a great distance, his own words a whisper. “For that to happen you'd have to possess a heart. I think you were created without one. There's just a dark hole where one should be, and you fill it with every trick in the book to wrap people around your little finger and watch them squirm. I think it's what you've always done.”

Hannibal is silent for a long, long time. He regards Will carefully, with reverence in his eyes, looking at every line of his face. His brows, his lashes behind the frames of his glasses, the sharp line of his cheekbone, the curve of his nose. The bow of his lips. Will’s tongue darts out to wet them and Hannibal’s pupils dilate. He leans in close, his lips brushing Will’s cheek, and whispers into his ear. 

“I did have a heart once, Will. Once upon a time. But now I struggle to remember what has become of it.” As it did last night in Hannibal’s bedroom doorway, time grinds to a shuddering halt. “Or who to challenge for its safe return.” 

Will breathes, blinks once. 

“I think you know, Hannibal. It was you who gave it to them…” 

Will’s cheek presses into Hannibal’s and his hands come up to grasp the lapels of his suit. He smells of cloves, of cinnamon, of the memories of last night, and Will’s eyes fall closed as a kiss is pressed to the column of his throat. Then another, sweet and soft but loaded, electrically charged, and Will aches between his legs. Another kiss, this time just below the bolt of his jaw as Hannibal's other hand brushes up his thigh to clasp his hip then slide around to the small of his back, pulling their hips together and a shuddering gasp leaves Will’s lips. He can feel the thick length of Hannibal against his stomach, feels all sensation flooding out of his arms and legs as he's held close, and then they're kissing and it's everything he imagined it would be and more. Hannibal breaks them apart only to take off Will’s glasses and deposit them on a shelf somewhere, then one hand is in Will’s hair and the other returned to his waist, holding them against each other as their mouths move together. 

Hannibal kisses just as Will thought he would and yet every second feels like a delicious shock to his system. He's pinned against the bookshelf as the older man licks into his mouth, nips at his bottom lip, dominates and devours him and shares his breath and it makes Will dizzy with the need for more. Or from lack of oxygen because Hannibal just isn't letting up. His fingers grip and release the fabric of Hannibal’s clothing in spasms and his heart races so fast it feels like it's trying to escape from between his ribs. He's powerless under Hannibal’s assault, and the only coherent thought that manages to get through is: Y _es, this is it. This is what I wanted. This is how it should be._ And he wants more. 

“Do you… have a patient due?” Will gasps into Hannibal’s neck. His shirt is being untucked and Hannibal is unbuckling his belt with quick, deft hands. 

“No. My attention is all on you.” Hannibal breathes, capturing his mouth once again. “It's what you wanted, isn't it? My devotion. To be my sole focus.” Another searing kiss. “You shall have it, Will. You are all I want at this exact moment in time. Just as you are.” A kiss on the forehead, a rub of cheek to cheek. “See?”

_ See…? _

Will’s eyes crack open briefly, a reflex at Hannibal’s mouth leaving his to find his pulse point, and he freezes in horror as his blood cools in his veins. Large antlers are branching out inches from his face and the tongue at his neck feels rough and cold. His body flushes all over from the sudden fear of being boxed in by a familiar yet terrifying form and he's pushing at Hannibal and twisting in his grasp. The stag is here, in the room, and it's merged with Hannibal’s form somehow and he watches, wide-eyed, as his breath rises in clouds between them. The stag’s eyes are blood red and there's a rushing in Will’s ears as it looms over him, tall now, towering, and he's on his knees in helpless supplication. 

“…Will?”

He blinks and the room darkens to shadow and ash around him. Something is gripping his shoulder tight and he turns his head as if in slow motion to see the stag, mutilated and haggard, jaw stretched around his shoulder and teeth sunk into his flesh, twisting the fabric of his clothing and tearing the skin beneath. 

_ “…Will…” _

_ See? _

His throat is raw, as though scathed by sandpaper, and he realises the harsh cries that split the air are coming from his own lips. He smells blood, cloves, the chemical residue of formaldehyde, cinnamon, rotting flesh. And as he tries to twist away, falling forward onto his palms, the shadow of Garrett Jacob Hobbs looms up over him. 

__ See?   
  
•••   
  
“…a mild seizure…”

“…were you doing at the time?”

“…talking about…seemed distant…”

Will blinks himself back to Hannibal’s office and tries to breathe past the feeling of an elephant sitting on his chest. Or the stag, his mind supplies, and he shakes his head drowsily to clear it. He's got tunnel vision, blurred at the edges, and he's looking at the legs of Hannibal’s chair and beyond it a shelf lined with books and papers. 

“Will?” Dark hair swings in front of him in a curtain and he manages to focus on her long enough for her features to come clear. “How are you feeling?”

“Alana?” He blinks sluggishly and allows her to help him into a sitting position. “What happened?”

“You were with Hannibal, he says you had a seizure.” Her cool, dry palm meets his forehead and he doesn't know whether to lean into the touch or away from it. “You're running a fever. I should take you home.”

“No, no, I'm fine, I…” he trails off, touches a hand to his forehead and balks as his fingertips come away damp with sweat. It's only then that he realises he's shivering, boiling hot and freezing cold all at once. He casts about for Hannibal and finds him instantly, sitting in his usual chair but on the edge of it instead of lounging back. His elbows are on his knees and he wears an expression of consternation that could be natural or could be constructed. Will rubs his aching eyes then, remembering the stag, clutches at his shoulder, expecting his hand to come away bloody. 

“Will? Are you alright?” The concern in Hannibal’s voice is genuine and it washes over him like a salve. “Alana knocked on the door just as you collapsed in my arms. We almost called for an ambulance.”

_ I thought he wasn't expecting anyone… _

Will shakes his head groggily, remembering the heat of their kiss and feeling his cheeks flush at the realisation of what Alana could have walked in on. Then his gaze sharpens - as much as it can in his weakened state - and snaps to Hannibal. Had that been his plan, for Alana to walk in on them together? Why?

“Come on, up you get.” Alana supports him as he stands and Hannibal moves to his side to help. “I'll drive you home, we can pick up your car later. You need to get some sleep.”

“I fear his exhaustion today is partly my fault. He was up late last night, attending to me.” 

Will swallows hard at the double entendre, eyes flicking to Alana to see if she picked up on it. But she's distracted by Hannibal rolling up his sleeve to show her Will’s wonky stitching and he watches her cringe. 

“I'm glad he was there to look after you. Now it's my turn to look after him.”

Alana’s arm feels solid and strong around his waist as they make their way to the door. Will turns to glance back at Hannibal, and when he does he's certain he sees a flash of jealousy in the man’s dark eyes.


	4. Tears

It's pleasantly warm when Will comes back to himself. 

He's lying in bed, sheets twisted around his legs as though he's been tossing and turning, and as he blinks himself awake he finds he has no idea what time it is. His skin is sticky and he can smell the sweetness of fever on himself. Drowsy, he curls closer to the warm body next to him and uses the person’s chest as a pillow. Alana? He vaguely remembers her taking him home, making him some mint tea and sitting with him on the couch. But the body beneath him is too solid, too firm to be her. No narrow waist or the soft curve of breasts. Absently, eyes closed, he runs his hand across the firm chest, fingers tangling in hair, and an arm cradles him close. He feels warm, safe, protected, and lingers in that sweet space between consciousness and deep sleep. Then the smell permeates his haze and he whispers, “Hannibal…” into the silence. 

Cloves. Cinnamon. Something coppery and tangy. His own sweat, the bitter bite of arousal. It fills his lungs to the brim and almost chokes him yet he inhales deeper. He wants to swathe himself in the same scent that clothes Hannibal and drift away in it. He blinks again, then curls closer. This is nice, lying here with him. This is safe. Hannibal is shirtless and so is Will, both of them clad only in underwear from the feel of one strong thigh beneath his. The sheets pool at their waists and Will presses a little closer, not daring to move too much and shatter the peace. The deep, slow rise and fall of the man’s chest signifies sleep and Will is loathe to wake him. Waking him would mean talking, would mean awkwardness, and he doesn't want this to end just yet. He harks back to Hannibal calling him childish and right now that's just how he feels. Like a child needing comfort. 

He winds his fingers into the greying chest hair and sighs against Hannibal’s skin, trying to remember. Did the other man come here when he was asleep? And just climb into bed with him? That's a new level of entitlement that he's not certain even Hannibal is capable of, but then again he's learned never to assume anything about the older man. His blinds block out most of the light so it's impossible to tell what time it is. Out in the kitchen the dogs scratch and whine, whuffing at each other to settle small arguments. He thinks he hears a water bowl overturn. He should get up, feed and walk them all, speak to Hannibal. Ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing in Will’s house uninvited and unannounced. Then maybe they can pick up where they left off unless he's managed to sleep the entire day and night through and is now late for his classes. That isn't beyond the realms of possibility. His cock stirs against his thigh, soft but with the easy potential to perk up if the situation requires it. Which he very much hopes that it does. 

“Hannibal,” he murmurs, pressing a palm into the rib cage and nudging him. “Wake up. Hannibal.” When no movement is forthcoming beyond a gentle tightening of the fingers on his shoulder he slaps his side irritably. “C’mon. I want to talk to you. I can't believe you just crept in here without even waking me up to tell me, and… oh, _God_! _No_!”

He's pushed himself up onto an elbow and glanced up at Hannibal’s face, ready to give him an irate mouthful about boundaries and assumptions before kissing him senseless, but the words die on his lips and his breath turns to ice in his lungs. 

Garrett Jacob Hobbs stares up at him with pale eyes and bloody lips, a wide smile stretching his grey face. 

“See?” He asks Will, with an amused glint to his milky eyes. Blood runs from them like tears, dripping down into his temples and as Will pushes himself away in violent revulsion a strip of skin sloughs off beneath his palm, opening up a gaping, seething wound and warm blood slicks Will’s palm. “See?”

And Will bolts upright, a horrified scream tearing his throat raw, to find himself alone in the bedroom.    
  
•••   
  


Alana’s car is still here and three of the dogs are missing so she must be around somewhere. Will stands at the stove a while later, dressed in his oldest, softest jeans and thick knitted socks, a fine tremor still pressing at his hands as he makes pancakes from a cheap mix. His hair curls at the nape of his neck, still damp, and he's wearing a Henley over a t-shirt in an attempt to keep warm. The heat from the fire he had hastily built after his shower is barely doing anything to thaw the ice that has settled in his chest following his nightmare. He isn't even sure it was a nightmare. It felt so real, the body beneath his hands felt so solid and the familiar, rich scent of Hannibal seemed to caress him so perfectly. Now he feels sick at the very thought. 

It's cold outside, a light dusting of snow glistening on the ground and the dogs are restless. They want to go out but Will doesn't want to take them. For once, his house feels safer than the outside world. Every room except his bedroom, that is. The door stands firmly closed, the bedsheets stripped off and balled up, ready to be washed, yet fresh blankets haven't chased away the horror. Neither has a shower, nor a second shower, nor purging the contents of his stomach multiple times into the toilet bowl. His throat hurts and his teeth feel furry in spite of using the majority of a bottle of mouthwash. He's familiar with nightmares. With visions. But this time it's different. 

This time, it wasn't just his dreams that were violated. It was his trust. Whatever this thing is between him and Hannibal, it's beginning to get under his skin and while he can't begin to predict the other man's actions he somehow knows he can trust him not to hurt him. Well, not accidentally, anyway. But this morning he had felt secure for the first time in as long as he can remember and that security had come from within Hannibal’s embrace. He needs to explore that, to start with. But first he needs to shake off the lingering shock and terror that was triggered upon seeing the face of the man he murdered lying where the man he craves as his lover should be. He shivers now, skin crawling, remembering Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ seeping wound where his flesh has slid away. Nausea threatens and he covers his mouth, panting, glasses steaming up until he can't see what he's cooking any more. The world around him narrows to a tunnel once more, and he remembers Hannibal’s office. Being told he'd suffered a seizure. What if it's happening again? What if Alana comes back and finds him collapsed, dead from hitting his head on the way down? Or - worse - what if she doesn't come back for days and when she does all that remains are his bones, stripped bare by his dogs as they starved. Biting the hand that feeds them, literally. 

He vomits into the sink. Wipes his brow and stays hunched over, blinking away tears of reaction. What's happening to him? What's  _ wrong  _ with him?

“Will?” Alana’s soft voice floats into the room and Buster runs up to him, jumping up at his legs and yipping. He reaches blindly down to stroke him, wiping his face and rinsing out his mouth. “Are you okay?” She moves into his peripheral vision and he can sense her flinch. “You look dreadful. Sit down, let me finish cooking.”

“Thanks,” he manages, collapsing down onto a chair and allowing Buster to leap up onto his lap on the third attempt, claws scrabbling painfully at his thighs through his jeans. Alana puts a plate in front of him and he manages to eat, although the food tastes like ash and sawdust. She suggests taking him to a doctor but he declines vehemently.

“I was with a doctor when it happened. If Hannibal isn’t worried, I’m sure there’s no reason for me to be. He would tell me if I needed to see a specialist or have tests done.” He scrubs a hand over his face, exhausted. “I’m just tired.”

“I’m worried about you, Will. This job, consulting for Jack… It’s not good for you. You need some space.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not that easy.” 

He doesn’t articulate why. Alana knows why he can’t quit. He feels a sense of duty towards Jack and towards the victims of the killers he catches. Quitting and living a quiet, peaceful life isn’t on the agenda for him, at least as far as he can see. He feels crushed under the weight of the responsibility he feels, and he knows it would probably be therapeutic to discuss it. But something keeps the words at bay, and he manages to brush off Alana’s concerns with a vague wave of his hand.

“I’ll be fine. If anything else happens, I’ll see a doctor. Don’t worry about me.”

“I always worry about you, Will. And I’ll always be your friend. I hope you know that.” 

Alana squeezes his wrist gently and he recalls their kiss in his living room as though it had happened to someone else a lifetime ago. It was a mistake, and he hardly feels the need to articulate this to her. He’s too unstable for her, knows this, and he also knows she would never be able to stop looking at him as though he were a specimen beneath a microscope. It wouldn’t be good for either of them and, in truth, he has no feelings towards her. She provided momentary comfort, nothing more. Perhaps if nothing had transpired with Hannibal, he would have taken those feelings to be more than just a need for closeness with another person. But the flare of passion he felt for her in the moment is barely more than a flicker in comparison to his burning need for Hannibal. 

“Has he called?” He ducks his head as he asks, embarrassed at sounding so needy. But if Alana notices or suspects anything she doesn’t comment.

“No. I’ll speak to him, tell him you’re resting. If he’s concerned I’m sure he’ll get in touch or drop by.”

“I don’t think ‘dropping by’ would be particularly convenient for him. I live in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’ve known Hannibal for longer than you have, Will.” Alana stands, wrapping her scarf around her neck and squeezing his shoulder companionably. He has to steel himself against flinching back from the touch. “And I know he never lets convenience dictate his actions under any circumstance. Call me later. And rest up - Winston will tell me if you don’t.”

The day passes in a haze of confusion and exhaustion, with little bursts of fright and anger as he remembers Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ face and the realisation that he hasn’t heard from Hannibal at all. Alana had said she would call him, tell him that Will is doing fine now, but would it have put the older man out too much to pick up the damn phone and check for himself? Will slams about in the kitchen bitterly, frying bread and eggs for his dinner and feeding the dogs with such a thundercloud above him that they all avoid him until he’s well out of the way, only venturing out to eat when his back is turned. Only Winston sticks by his side, wet nose pressing into his hand every now and then, seeking to comfort and be comforted. Will allows him to sleep on the bed that night and wakes up the next morning with the remnants of a nightmare on his lips, crammed against the wall with four more dogs stretched out next to him, panting and drooling and shedding their hair everywhere. His first thought is how horrified Hannibal would be at the sight and he bursts into slightly hysterical laughter. Winston gives him a pained ‘not my fault’ look and leaps down from the bed, padding out of the room in search of breakfast.

He consults with Jack on a new case, one that even he finds particularly grisly. A human totem pole, made from bodies in varying states of decay on a beach in Grafton. The snow is coming down and his breath feels as though it could freeze in his lungs as he dissects the scene, visualising with painful clarity the assembly of the pole and the very moment when the final victim, forced to watch the whole macabre ordeal, was stabbed through the heart. The crowning jewel. He feels shaky and ill as he drives back into Baltimore, Garrett Jacob Hobbs grinning at him in his rearview mirror and he chokes back a mouthful of bile. 

He heads for Hannibal’s office without much conscious thought, meeting him as he’s locking up for the afternoon. His anger has mellowed to a dull irritation, memory of their heated kiss fuelling the desire to see him. But he stands dutifully at the bottom of the steps, unsure what to do with his hands so he shoves them in his pocket and waits.

“Will. What a pleasant surprise.” Hannibal pockets his keys. “You do not have an appointment.”

“No. I don’t.” He pauses, wondering if he should bother with generic pleasantries or just get straight down to it. His mouth decides that for him. “You didn’t call.”

Hannibal gazes steadily at him until Will has to break the stare, looking instead at his feet. Eye contact is always a problem, will always be a problem, yet when Hannibal pins him with one of those probing looks he finds himself powerless to move away for a time. It’s yet something else disconcerting to add to this list of his fascinations with this man. He redirects his gaze to Hannibal, but not to his face. The suit today is tweed, navy blue and purple, and the tie is likely to be a paisley print if Will’s eidetic memory is to be trusted. It’s concealed by a thick cashmere scarf and Hannibal slips on his overcoat under Will’s scrutiny.

“Walk with me, Will. It seems you have much you would like to say to me.”

Hannibal steers him down the street with an arm at his elbow and Will’s skin tingles in spite of the layers of clothing separating them. They blend in with the other businessmen and women, walking from their work to their cars or to the shops, seeking lunch and coffee, talking on their cell phones and looking harrassed by the cold weather. There are slushy puddles beneath his feet and the snow that had accosted him at Grafton cannot be far away. He hasn’t outrun it quite so easily.

“You didn’t call,” he says again as they make their way through the cold Baltimore streets. Hannibal gives him an appraising look.

“I did not. Alana Bloom told me you had recovered and appeared well. As well as to be expected,” he amends upon seeing Will’s face. “Please try not roll your eyes at me, Will. It’s crude.”

“My apologies,” Will says, not sorry at all. “You should have called. You can’t kiss someone like that and then blank them for the entire day. Not after what happened. You can’t just eat and run.”

The smile Hannibal gives him is both disconcerting and intriguing, and it sets a strange feeling flaring up behind Will’s ribcage. “A candid choice of words. You have my sincere apologies, I did not realise you were expecting to hear from me. We have our regular appointment in two days, I expected we would speak then.”

“You wanted to wait two whole days?” Will stops, incredulous, and the person behind him almost walks into him. 

“Will, please. Watch what you’re doing.” Hannibal frowns, takes him by the arm again and propels him forwards. “I thought you might want some time to collect your thoughts. I felt you should be allowed some space while you did so.”

“You are unbelievable.” Will shakes Hannibal’s hand off, irritably. He wanted nothing more than Hannibal’s voice on the end of the phone, his presence in his house, the comfort of his hands and mouth, and apparently Hannibal was so blase about it all that he thought Will needed the exact opposite. Perfect.

“Thank you,” Hannibal says, not a hint of irony in his voice, and Will gapes at him.

“That wasn’t a compliment!” He’s fallen behind in his surprise and has to jog a few steps to keep up with Hannibal’s long stride.

“Nevertheless, I took it as such.”

“Hannibal, I-”

Will breaks off and stumbles as a dark-haired man talking loudly on a cell phone shoves between them, pushing them apart and out of the way as he heads quickly towards the crosswalk up ahead. Hannibal makes a stifled noise of displeasure, but Will’s attention is drawn quickly away from the man to a woman in a red coat who stumbles as she’s elbowed out of the way. She catches her foot on a loose slab of paving and falls, landing on one knee and dropping her shopping bags. Will is at her side in an instant.

“Are you okay? I saw what happened.”

“Yes, yes. I’m fine. He startled me. Where did he go?”

“I’m not sure. Here, let me help.” The woman is older than he thought at first, lines at her eyes and hair greying at the roots, and she looks startled by the incident, scrabbling about to pick up her groceries. She grumbles under her breath about thoughtless people and 

Will would have lost the guy in the crowd. Dark suited, dark-haired, nondescript with no identifying features. That and he’s too focused on helping the woman up and picking up her shopping for her. But when he straightens, when the woman has thanked him profusely and ambled away with pink-cheeks, he follows Hannibal’s stony gaze and sees the man across the street, climbing the stairs of what looks like an accounting firm.

“Come on,” he nudges Hannibal’s arm. “No harm done. She’s fine.”

“That was unspeakably rude,” There’s a quiet fury to Hannibal’s tone. His face is characteristically neutral but his words carry an undercurrent of disgust and rage, cold in a way that makes Will shiver in spite of his thick coat and scarf. “I should go and have a word with him.”

“No.” Will’’s grip on Hannibal’s arm tightens meaningfully. He isn’t sure what Hannibal will do if he crosses the street but something instinctual tells him that he very much does not want to find out. “Let’s go. Hannibal, come on. It’s cold and I don’t want to stand out here waiting for you.”

“I do not recall asking you to wait for me. You may go on, and I shall follow once I’ve had a little discussion with him about the importance of good manners.” There’s a glint to Hannibal’s eyes that Will certainly doesn’t like, and he refuses to let go even when Hannibal tries to tug his arm free. 

“No. Come on. Forget about it. You can’t fix everyone’s personality flaws, no matter how much you might want to. Look - it’s snowing. Time to go.”

The weather is starting to turn. The sky has clouded to a thick, dense grey and snowflakes are fluttering down between the buildings. They gather in Hannibal’s hair and on his eyelashes and Will has to stop himself from reaching up to brush them away. He clenches his fist, then forcibly moves them along the sidewalk. He’s craving coffee and there’s an artisan bakery on the next street that should be up to Hannibal’s exacting standards. He’s almost surprised when Hannibal allows himself to be drawn along, his gaze finally leaving the doorway where the man had disappeared into, and they pick their way down the sidewalk together in the snow, Will being conscious to avoid any more collisions or anything that could spark Hannibal’s temper. From the minuscule glimpses that he’s had of it, he can imagine it being vicious. 

They drink coffee and eat pain au chocolats and eclairs in the bakery while the snow melts and dampens their hair and their coats, and Hannibal doesn’t snub the baked goods the way Will worried he would. He doesn’t look like he enjoys them to the extent Will does - the delicate pastry is heavenly on his tongue, a delicious and rare treat - but he finishes his with no complaints. They shelter from the snow a moment longer until Will admits he should really go, that he has plenty of prep to do for his class the following day. The afternoon is growing old, street lamps starting to flicker on and the snowflakes fatter and sparking in the car headlights. Will is grateful for his thick scarf on days like this. They don’t continue their conversation; Will doesn’t know how to pick it back up and Hannibal volunteers nothing until it’s time for them to leave.

“I’d like to have dinner with you, Will,” Hannibal says as they exit the shop. He’s holding the door for Will, all old-world charm, and the effortless attention makes Will’s cheeks flush and pleasure coil up his spine. “An intimate dinner party, if you will. I think we need to talk frankly with one another in an environment we both feel comfortable. I also have a new recipe I would like to try, and I believe you will appreciate it. Tomorrow night. Are you available? I’m aware it’s short notice but I don’t believe your social calendar is particularly full.”

“Ouch. But you’re right, the only people I ever hang out with in the evenings aren’t usually able to refuse my company. Unless Jack finds me another dead body to socialise with, I’m all yours.”

As soon as the words leave his lips, he regrets them. They were supposed to be offhand, a jest, yet the breathy way his voice had lilted as he spoke made them sound much more intimate. A promise. An offering. And judging by the darkening of Hannibal’s eyes that’s exactly how he’s taken the comment. He imagines sitting across from Hannibal in his dining room, the table polished to a fine shine and the lighting dim and moody. Expensive wine wasted on Will’s unrefined palette. Coffee after dinner in Hannibal’s drawing room in front of the fire, standing close together. Hot, sweet kisses leading to more. Making it past the doorway of Hannibal’s bedroom...

“Excellent. I’ll prepare something exquisite for you, Will. You won’t be disappointed.”

Will swallows, hard. Hannibal’s hand has settled possessively on the small of his back and remains there as they walk through the throngs of people in the flurry of snow.

“I never am where you’re concerned.”


	5. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very, very, very not safe for work...

Will sits in his car for a long time after killing the engine, so long that his breath begins to cloud in front of him. He didn’t know what to wear tonight and didn’t want to make a fool of himself by calling Hannibal to ask for a dress code. ‘Intimate dinner party’ - what attire does that command? He settled for a pair of black jeans - smart, tapered, the best he has - and a black shirt with a slim gray tie. He feels like he’s going to a funeral, but he also feels sophisticated in a way that makes his skin itch. He longs to be back in Wolf Trap with his dogs in front of the fire, to avoid the inevitable awkwardness that will be the prelude to this evening. But if he perseveres through that, the enjoyment that hopefully lies ahead will be worth it. And do he and Hannibal really have to talk about the relationship that is slowly being cultivated between them? Can they not let it take its natural course?

They probably could have, before Will got all accusatory the previous day and Hannibal, as a result, decided they needed to talk. This is all his own fault, naturally. ‘Socially awkward Will Graham fucks up yet another relationship with the need to talk it all through again.’ He should call Freddie Lounds and provide her next headline.

The house looms over him as he peers out of the window, distorted into the abstract behind a curtain of swirling snow. Lights burn in the downstairs window, gentle glows, and Will can imagine Hannibal cooking in his kitchen, sleeves rolled up and sipping wine in between effortlessly familiar movements. Chop, dice, pare, shred, saute. He doesn’t remember what’s on Hannibal’s menu, if he even volunteered the information to begin with, but his mouth fills with saliva at the thought of what he might be served. Hannibal’s cooking is legendary, a topic of much discussion amongst the high-society folk of Baltimore - or so he’s been told. He tends to avoid the bourgeoisie at all costs, unless he has them open on a table in front of him or in pieces at a crime scene. He closes his eyes. He mustn’t do this to himself, not now. He’ll spoil his own evening and God knows he needs to relax - if that’s even possible in the company of Dr. Lecter. He’ll have to find out, sooner rather than later.

He opens the car door, pulls his collar up to protect himself - he tells himself it's from the snow but knows he's lying - and climbs the steps, his boots leaving imprints in the fresh snow. He raises his hand to knock and starts as the door swings open to reveal Hannibal standing with a welcoming smile on his face, looking genuinely pleased to see him.

“My dear Will. Please, come in.”

He says it as though they're commencing a therapy session and steps back to allow Will entry. A hand on Will’s hip draws him to a halt and Hannibal leans in, nose gently brushing the curls of hair behind Will’s ear. He hears as well as senses the older man inhale, scenting him deeply, then a soft kiss is pressed to his cheek. Will turns, chases his mouth for more, but is gently pushed away and Hannibal turns him to help him out of his coat instead.

“Please,” Hannibal gestures towards the kitchen. He's in his shirt, sleeves rolled up, just as Will imagined him to be. “I am not quite finished preparing our meal yet. Perhaps you will keep me company while I cook?”

“Absolutely.” Obediently, Will follows him into the kitchen and accepts the proffered glass of wine. “What are we having?”

“I prefer to keep it as a surprise.” Hannibal returns to chopping what looks like grapefruit then, glancing at Will to ensure his audience is appropriately rapt, tosses one in the air and allows it to fall directly onto the upturned blade of his knife, halving it perfectly.

“Bravo.” Will can't help his grin. “Show off.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I seek to impress you.”

“I'm not sure you're particularly concerned with that,” Will makes his way around the kitchen island, his glass clasped in one hand and the other trailing along the surface. He watches Hannibal watch the movement of his fingers. “Either you think you don't need to, or you think you've already done so.”

“I think the only person who can answer that question is you, Will,” Hannibal has stopped chopping, the knife in his hand polished to such a fine shine that Will can glimpse his own reflection. “Do I need to continue to strive to impress you? Will you bow out of our courtship if I do?”

“Is that what this is?” Will stops at Hannibal’s side. “A courtship? It feels more like a claim. Or a game of chess, where you already have me in check.”

“This is whatever you want it to be, beautiful boy. What do you want it to be?”

“I have no idea. You're usually the one with all the answers.”

Hannibal’s hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him close, and Will is mindful of the knife in his other hand, the blade razor sharp. He's kissed on the mouth with gentle deliberation, parting his lips to deepen the kiss yet suffering through Hannibal holding back and keeping the moment chaste and innocent. When Hannibal pulls away and turns his attention back to his cooking, Will grips his wine glass so tight he threatens to shatter it, unable to voice his frustration in any verbal way. The memory of Hannibal upstairs in his bedroom, lost in the throes of pleasure as he touches himself, burns heady in his memory and his cock twitches in his pants. He wonders if Hannibal’s keen sense of smell can pick up his arousal - rather than calming him, the thought only serves to excite him more and he has to turn away, cheeks flushing, before he does something uncouth like reach for Hannibal or bend over the kitchen counter and bed for a good hard fuck. He’s sure, as he turns, that he sees Hannibal’s nostrils flare.

He wanders the kitchen as Hannibal moves effortlessly around, touching certain things and moving others, amusing himself by watching Hannibal follow him about and fuss, putting his kitchen back together in the wake of Will’s curiosity. Eventually, as he reaches for a crystal carafe, his arm is caught and Hannibal turns his hand, kisses the soft skin on the inside of his wrist just where his blood pulses through the blue veins, and inhales his scent for just a moment.

“Please. Meet me at the table. Dinner will only be a moment longer.”

Being alone in the vast, opulent dining room feels a step too far. He feels too alone in the sprawling house, too scrutinised in spite of his solitude. It’s as though Hannibal has a thousand eyes hidden from view in every room of Chandler Square, all of them attuned to Will’s every movement. He wonders if Hannibal has a video camera secreted somewhere, if he’s recording tonight to watch back later. And, if he is, Will wonders exactly what it is he’s hoping to see.

When Hannibal appears, carrying a vast tray with two silver plates on, he’s changed. He’s in a plaid suit and finely pinstriped tie, pale blue shirt with mother of pearl buttons, and a matching pocket handkerchief. He looks impeccable and Will swallows at the sight. He looks edible.

“So,” he fidgets with his wine glass to cover his anxiety. “What are we eating?”

“Seared calves liver with fondant potato, blood orange compote, citrus salad, buttered asparagus,” Hannibal sets Will’s plate down in front of him, pausing for effect. “And roasted figs.”

It looks fantastic, as always. All Hannibal’s cooking manages to look like a work of art and Will’s mouth waters at the sight of it all. They sit at right angles to each other, close enough to touch, and beautiful piano music floats through the room, lulling Will into a pleasant sense of dreaminess, the way eased by the wine.

“Rachmaninov?” He hazards a guess and Hannibal closes his eyes, pained. He knew it would be wrong: too easy. “I'll get it right one day.”

“Perhaps.” Recovered from his momentary trauma, Hannibal spears an asparagus tip and chews thoughtfully. His other hand covers Will’s on the table. “But is success attained through guesswork truly success at all?”

“Is that an insult to my career as well, or just to my music taste?”

“No insult to either. Your taste in classical composers could use some refining, I don't dispute that. But there's no guesswork involved in your job, Will, and you know that.” Hannibal gazes at him from beneath his lashes. “If you wish me to compliment you all you have to do is ask. Don't fish. It's vulgar.”

“You seem to find so much of me vulgar, it's a wonder I'm allowed to dine with you at all.” Will sips his wine with a deliberately loud slurp, eyes flashing in delight when Hannibal stiffens and his fingers tighten over Will’s.

“I find nothing about you vulgar.” Hannibal sips his own wine with his free hand, swirling the rich liquid and scenting it before drinking - a clear demonstration and a reprimand all in one. “Although your insistence on saying the most appalling things just to goad me is somewhat taxing, I'll admit that freely.” His hand tightens just a little more, eliciting a hiss of pain, then relaxes into a caress. “But you are far from vulgar, Will Graham. If you were, we would be dining under entirely different circumstances than those we find ourselves in tonight.”

Will doesn't quite know what that means, but his request for clarification dies on his lips as Hannibal raises their joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss to Will’s knuckles. The rest of dinner goes without incident - they make small talk, they laugh politely, and Will allows his knee to brush Hannibal’s under the table. They somehow manage to ignore the crackle of sexual tension that fills the air, and Will almost inhales his dessert in his eagerness to know exactly what might be about to happen to him when dinner is over. As Hannibal clears the plates away, his excitement becomes tinged with apprehension - Hannibal is all but ignoring him as he picks up glasses and a stray spoon that missed his first sweep of the table. But as he bends, reaches across from behind Will to refill his wine glass, his cheek brushes the dark curls at Will’s temple and it’s as though a spark ignites something between them.

Will turns his head, just a minute amount, and Hannibal brushes the back of his knuckles against his jaw. Their eyes meet, irises sparkling in the candlelight, lashes fluttering lazily, then Hannibal kisses him and Will sighs as an electrical charge of pleasure and relief courses up his spine. Then his chair is being dragged backwards and he’s standing up, in Hannibal’s arms, wound tight in his embrace as they attack each other’s mouths with a voracity borne of days and days of building tension. Hannibal taste of wine and rich dark chocolate and something deeper, earthier, and Will chases the taste with his tongue. He wonders what Hannibal tastes like between his legs, and his cock thickens against his thigh at the thought. Rough hands pull at his tie, yank it undone and pull it free. It’s tossed haphazardly away then the buttons of his shirt are being worked open, collar to sternum, and he can’t stop kissing Hannibal, never wanting it to end. Then, abruptly, his mouth is wrenched from Hannibal’s and he’s spun around to face the table, boxed in against it, and he sighs in rapture.

Hannibal’s hands are on his belt, mouth hot and wet against his neck as he licks and sucks and bites at Will’s skin, and when he finally gets the buckle undone he shoves Will’s pants and boxers down in one sharp motion. Will gasps as the cool air of the dining room hits his bare skin, his cock almost fully erect now, and can't help the whine that builds in his throat as Hannibal takes him by the hips and bites at the juncture of neck and shoulder, hard enough to bruise. He cries out as teeth puncture his skin and he's suddenly so hard it almost hurts, his head swimming as his hands grope wildly behind him, settling on Hannibal’s hips and holding on. Hannibal drags him further down the table, away from the remnants of their dinner, and Will catches sight of himself in the mirror above the fireplace. His hair is dishevelled and he's flushed in the cheeks. His shirt collar is open, two buttons ripped off and his collarbone exposed with the outline of Hannibal’s teeth visible in a red splash across his skin. He groans at the sight: he's never seen himself so debauched. Hannibal is kissing his neck again and meets his eyes in the mirror, one hand snaking up to curl gently around his throat.

Will turns sharply in his arms, taking his mouth in a clash of lips and teeth and his cock rubs erotically against Hannibal’s hip, drawing a groan from him. He glances down, sees his cock standing up thick and wet at the tip from the dark hair between his legs. He doesn't groom himself, hasn't for years since his last girlfriend expressed a distaste for his natural state. But years spent alone robbed him of the habit and it hadn't crossed his mind once - until this moment. He's suddenly nervous about what Hannibal will think of him.

“I can almost hear your thoughts, Will,” Hannibal cups his jaw, kisses his mouth, nuzzles their noses together. “Tell me what it is that vexes you.”

“I haven't shaved,” Will murmurs, distracted into honesty then humiliated at the words. He turns and rests his cheek on Hannibal’s shoulder to avoid his gaze, feels himself pulled closer.

“Will. I would have you no other way than exactly how you are.” Hannibal takes the opportunity to push Will’s pants down his thighs, gripping his ass and rocking their hips together so that his erection is unmissable. “You surely can believe nothing else.”

“So much about this feels like a dream,” Will murmurs into his shoulder. “I'm afraid I'll suddenly wake up and be alone.”

“Then please allow me to convince you of the reality of our situation,” Hannibal’s mouth claims his, hot and wet and dominant, and Will melts into him, groaning quietly as his cheeks are spread and a finger strokes down the cleft of his ass to brush over his tight, dry hole.

“Who said you get to top?” Will pants into his mouth, not really serious. During the brief trysts he's had with other men in the past he's much preferred being the one penetrated. It speaks to his deep-seated issues with control, allowing another person to possess his body in such a way, and he finds the idea of Hannibal taking him now to be unspeakably erotic. But he just wants to see what Hannibal will do to him for being such a brat.

“I don't recall telling you that you couldn't,” Hannibal nips his ear, fingers digging into the meat of Will’s ass. “What do you want, Will? As my guest, I think it's only fair that I yield to your preference.”

“Your _guest_?” Will pushes Hannibal away, off him, then advances. “That's all I am to you? A guest?”

For every step forward Will takes, Hannibal mirrors him with a step back until he's pressed against the wall and Will is boxing him in with hands on either side of his head. He leans in close, his lips inches from Hannibal’s throat, and inhales deeply - a stark mimic of one of the older man’s favourite things to do to him. He thinks he hears an aborted noise, feels Hannibal sigh beneath him. He smells rich, heady, intoxicating, and Will wants more. He wants to strip off every stitch of clothing and then some, press them so close together that they almost become one with each other. The thought both disturbs and intrigues him and he gives in to the latter, pressing his body up against Hannibal’s and stealing another kiss. Hands come up his spine to entangle in his hair, his head is tipped backwards and his throat attacked with kisses and little nips, and his eyes fall half closed until the shadows on the ceiling from the flickering fire become nothing more than a haze behind his lashes.

“I want you inside me,” Will whispers, barely aware of his own words, need flaring up his spine like wildfire. “I want you to take me.” Hannibal’s hands have stilled, fingers digging in. “Make me feel you.”

“Not here,” Hannibal nips his earlobe. “I don't fuck where I eat.”

Will shivers at the curse from the older man’s lips, Hannibal’s accent making the word sound sharper and more erotic. “Then take me to bed.”

They strip each other slowly in front of the fire in Hannibal’s bedroom. Candles burn on every surface and the curtains are open to allow the moonlight in. Will is so aroused by the time he’s nude that his shaking legs can barely hold him up, especially when Hannibal wraps his arms around his waist and begins to kiss him again, licking into his mouth and walking him backwards towards the bed. The heads of their cocks brush against each other with every step, Hannibal as hard as Will. They collapse together, still kissing, skin heating from arousal and flushed with desire. Will sighs in pleasure, tipping his head back to expose the column of his throat.

“There is a siren in my bed,” Hannibal kisses Will’s neck, linking their hands together and pinning Will’s at either side of his head. “Mesmerising me with his song.”

He kisses his way down to Will’s collarbones then lower, mouthing at a nipple then biting down, hard enough for Will to cry out, hard enough to leave a mark.

“So goddamn poetic,” Will grips his hair, holding him in place and Hannibal sucks on the stiff peak of his nipple.

“One clichéd line is hardly poetry. I could write an opera about you, Will Graham,” the words are murmured into his skin. “And still that wouldn't be enough to describe your beauty to the world.”

Will hides his face in his own forearm in shame, and when he dares to look up again he sees Hannibal kneeling over him with a small jar in his hand and two fingers shining in the candlelight, slick with lube. His cock jerks on his stomach, pulsing out a bead of pre-come, and he spreads his legs in invitation, biting down a wave of nerves. After a moment of studying his naked body with such intensity that Will almost reaches down to cover himself, bashful, Hannibal reaches between his legs and breaches him with one slick finger. He kisses him deeply throughout, stretching him on one finger, then two, finally three, until Will is writhing and arching, pushing down into Hannibal’s hand for more. 

“Do you want me to wear a condom?” Hannibal asks, voice rough with desire, and Will shakes his head before he’s even aware of his preference. “I’m safe, I promise you that. But if it will ease your mind, I can wear one.”

“No. I trust you.” It’s unwise, trusting Hannibal on his word, yet Will knows he’s speaking the truth. Hannibal may be dangerous in ways Will hasn’t quite managed to work out yet, but in this moment he doesn’t want any barrier between them. “I want to feel you.”

“You will, I promise you.” Hannibal leans down to kiss him, crooking his fingers once more against Will’s prostate, drawing a gasp, then withdrawing them. “Lie on your side,” he encourages Will to turn with a hand on his hip. “I want to see your face as I take you for the first time.”

“God,” Will grips the sheets tightly, feels Hannibal’s fingers caressing his thigh as it's pushed up and Hannibal kneels over him, body casting shadows as he moves. One hand cups Will’s balls and the other guides his own cock until the slick tip rests at his entrance.

“Tell me if it hurts.” Hannibal exerts a little pressure, enough to make Will inhale deeply but not enough to penetrate him yet.

“Why? Will you stop?”

“Would you want me to?” The head of Hannibal’s cock breaches Will, pushing through the tight ring of muscle into his body and they both exhale hard. Hannibal releases his balls in favour of gripping his calf, pushing his leg up a little further.

“No. God, no.” Will’s eyes fall closed and he turns his head to press his cheek into the pillows. “It hurts so good.”

It burns, the stretch of his body around Hannibal’s thick shaft, but Will craves it like oxygen. His rib cage rises and falls sharply with each breath and he's clenching his teeth so hard he's worried they might crack, but it feels exquisite.

“Breathe, beautiful boy.” Hannibal strokes his lower back, presses in another inch until he's buried to the hilt in Will’s body, the dark curls of his pubic hair pressed against the curve of Will’s ass. “Enjoy it.”

“I will. I am… _God…_ ”

Will loses himself in the steady inward thrust of Hannibal’s cock, in the gentle rocking of their hips as he's slowly fucked, and soon quiet groans are slipping from his lips with each movement. It doesn't hurt, but it doesn't quite feel good yet. He can feel every inch of Hannibal’s thick length moving inside him, and it punches the breath from his lungs. The intimacy is overwhelming and he closes his eyes to hide from the glare of it. He reaches for Hannibal, finding his hip and forearm, pulling at him to bring them closer until his body is boxed in amid strong arms and powerful thighs. And Hannibal still continues to fuck him, deep, rough thrusts that have Will gasping and that bring a sheet of sweat to his skin until it glistens.

“You’re so tight, Will,” Hannibal murmurs and Will squints up at him, eyes stinging from sweat. Hannibal looks undone, but barely so. He’s got sweat beading on his forehead, his cheeks are flushes and strands of hair are falling into his face but he still looks so in control, so powerful and so… so _dangerous_ that Will’s heart skips a beat and his body properly him closer to his orgasm. “Has it been a long time since anyone took you this way?”

“Yes,” Will groans, angling his hips for more and unable to choke back a moan as the tip of Hannibal’s cock massages his prostate with each thrust inward. “Shut up. I don’t want to think about them.”

“Them?” Hannibal grips his ankle, holds his hip, pins him to the bed. “No, Will. Forget them. After tonight, I only ever want you to think of me when you’re being taken like this.” His voice is wavering, his cock feeling thicker as it pushes into Will, and he’s nearing his climax as quickly as Will is. “Only me.”

“Yes, only you.” Will grips his wrist, grips the headboard, closes his eyes as pleasure sears up his spine. “Yes… _yes…”_

Then he’s coming with a cry and his head thrown back, Hannibal’s mouth on his pulse point as he tightens around the thick shaft, fucked deeply and roughly through his orgasm as the aftershocks ravage his body. Hannibal comes immediately after him, pulsing inside him as Will whines and gropes for every inch of him, heart racing so fast he can barely breathe, watching every line of Hannibal’s face as his orgasm seems to go on and on.

Hannibal manages to brace himself over Will’s spent body for long enough to pull out, to press a kiss to his forehead, then collapses down beside him, chest heaving. Will’s breath is coming in harsh little gasps and he presses a hand to his own sternum to feel his heart race.

“That was incredible,” he manages and Hannibal finds his hand, kisses his fingertips.

“It’s not the done thing to compliment a man’s sexual prowess immediately after orgasm,” Hannibal’s eyes are closed and there’s a strange, dreamy look on his face that looks jarringly out of place in contrast to his usual mask of impassivity. “However, on this occasion, I think I can forgive your lapse in decorum.” He meets Will’s eyes and they share a secret smile, soft around the edges. “Because you are absolutely right. That was incredible.”

Will laughs, almost giggling with euphoria, and Hannibal watches him for a moment, his own expression something akin to a grin. The firelight casts long shadows across their skin. Will wipes the sweat from his forehead, stretches his arms above his head, revels in the beauty of the moment.

“I'll be back in a minute,” Hannibal excuses himself to the bathroom and Will closes his eyes, lost in the torrent of endorphins coursing through his veins. He doesn't know how much time passes, but by the time he hears the door open again he's on the edge of sleep.

Lying on his back, his breathing slowly coming back under his own control, Will watches Hannibal return to the bedroom, nude and unashamed, and pick two pairs of soft pyjama pants out of a drawer for them both. Will hesitates, looking at them as Hannibal holds them out to him, then takes them - and discards them on the floor.

“I don't want them,” he hears himself say. “I want to sleep like this. With you.”

“I don't usually sleep in the nude,” Hannibal’s tone and expression are carefully neutral; it's a test. For both of them.

“Neither do I,” Will turns to lie on his stomach, pillowing his head on his folded arms, aware that the pale pallor of his skin is standing out starkly against Hannibal’s midnight blue sheets. “Usually.”

“Well, this is certainly,” Hannibal’s gaze travels down Will’s spine, lingering on the curve of his ass and the smear of lube likely visible on his inner thigh. “Unusual. For me, at least.”

“What is? Sharing your bed with someone?” Will stretches, cat-like, the euphoric glow from his orgasm robbing him of any of his customary inhibitions. He likes having Hannibal’s eyes on him.

“No. Sharing it with someone I like. _Avec l'homme que j'adore,_ ” he adds, almost to himself as he peels back the covers and settles on his side next to Will, his own pyjama pants discarded on a chair. He trails his fingers leisurely down the curve of Will’s back, brushing every vertebra from the base of his skull to his tailbone, and for a moment Will thinks he's going to stop, to wrap an arm around him and hush him into sleep. But after a pause, Hannibal’s fingers dip lower, between his cheeks, and a thumb gently brushes over his hole, still wet from the remnants of come and lube, and slackened from the stretch of being taken hard by a thick cock. The tip of Hannibal’s thumb breaches him and Will sighs into his own forearm. He's too tired to go again, but this gentle exploration of his body is erotic in a different way. It's as though Hannibal is reminding himself of his claim. Returning to the scene of his crime - a crime of passion, perhaps, Will muses as his eyes fall closed. Hannibal doesn't stop his ministrations, drawing gentle circles around Will’s most intimate place, the back of his knuckles against Will’s balls, and presses a kiss to his temple.

“Sleep, beautiful boy,” he whispers and Will smiles dreamily.

“With you doing that? How can I?”

“Do you want me to stop?” Hannibal presses his thumb into Will again, deeper this time, and Will groans, spreading his thighs.

“No…” It comes out husky, a low gasp, and Hannibal moves in closer, pressing his body up against Will’s side. Neither of them is hard, the years forbidding their bodies to respond to each other again in such a short space of time, but as Hannibal’s thumb pushes all the way in Will thinks this is almost as good as having a second round of sex. It's intimate in another way, feels incredible, and as Hannibal crooks his fingers and massages Will’s perineum he can't contain the moan that escapes his lips.

“What are you doing to me?” He whispers, rhetorical, arching his spine to give the older man better access to his body. Hannibal removes his thumb, kisses Will’s shoulder, then presses two fingers in to the hilt and Will gasps sharply.

“I can't come again,” he buries his face in his arms, but it's less of a statement and more of a question. The sensation rising within him is something akin to a slow-building orgasm, and he whines as he pushes back onto Hannibal’s fingers. “I don't think I can come again.”

“No, I don't expect so,” Hannibal’s nose is buried in his hair and he’s slowly fucking Will with two fingers, circling his prostate on each inward thrust, drawing an endless groan from Will. “But shall we find out?”

“Fuck. More… Hannibal, don't stop. _Please._ I'm… I can't, I'm…” Will fists his hands in the sheets, arching, almost pushing up onto his knees to take him deeper, then with a desperate, helpless cry he feels his body tense and clench around Hannibal’s fingers as two gentle pulses of come drip from his half-hard cock to the sheets below him and he trembles with pleasure. “ _God._ Fuck. Jesus.”

“My beautiful boy,” Hannibal whispers to him, coaxing him through the aftershocks as Will groans, clenching around his fingers, sounding thoroughly pleased with his efforts to draw a second orgasm from Will. “I adore seeing you reach orgasm, coming on just my hand. I could watch you climax all night long. You're exquisite.”

“Shut up,” Will gasps, chest heaving, turning onto his side to avoid the wet patch and wiping sweat from his brow even as his heart threatens to escape from his rib cage. “I don't have the energy.”

“I will teach you how to graciously accept a compliment,” Hannibal kisses him, pushing his sweat-damp hair off his forehead. “Somehow.”

“Somehow is right. You'll have your work cut out.” Will reaches for the covers, the cooling sweat on his skin beginning to chill him. The fire has dulled to a low glow and the breeze from the cracked open window makes him shiver. “I'm not exactly familiar with compliments.”

“An atrocity I shall seek to remedy with immediate effect. You're beautiful, Will. Deserving of much more than just compliments. I would give you the world, if I could.”

“Shut up,” Will murmurs again, and instead of reprimanding him for his lip Hannibal just smiles. They kiss deeply for a while, Hannibal stroking Will’s hair and Will tracing the shadows that the remnants of the flickering firelight cast across Hannibal’s face.

“Does this still feel like a game, Will?” Hannibal asks him a while later, when they're both warm and on the edge of sleep, entwined in an embrace so close it's impossible to see where one body ends and the other begins.

Will considers the question for a moment then turns, leaning in for a kiss.

“Yes,” he murmurs, eyes drifting closed as Hannibal caresses his jaw and kisses his forehead. “Checkmate.”


	6. Chapter 6

They make love again in the early morning, Hannibal kissing the cries from Will’s mouth and leaving deep bruises on his inner thighs from his fingers and teeth. Will cancels his classes for the day and Hannibal rearranges his only appointment, erasing his own swirling handwriting in his diary and rewriting it the following day after a brief conversation from the hallway that Will was only partly privy to.

When Hannibal comes back into the bedroom, Will lies naked amongst the silken sheets and appraises him. His shoulders and biceps are densely muscled, the planes of his chest firm and scattered with greying hair that Will has found he loves to wind his fingers through. Lower, Hannibal has the hint of sculpted abs below a softer layer, borne of a rich diet and a taste for the finer things in life - and an intense dislike for any physical activity that does not take place beneath the sheets, Will had learned in the early morning. He concurs with that sentiment, has spent many a year avoiding the local gyms and only keeping his physical fitness up to allow him to move quickly when out in the field with Jack. Tending to his dogs, taking long walks with them and working on his boats have kept him in decent shape, and Hannibal had complimented him during the night by kissing every inch of skin he could reach. Now, Will watches him approach like a predator slinking through the Serengeti, Hannibal the lion and Will the conscious prey. The corded muscles of his legs flex with each step, hinting at power, and his cock hangs soft, brushing his left thigh. Will wonders what it would take to make him hard again.

It doesn't take much at all. The careful attention of Will’s mouth and hands, and soon he's swallowing a mouthful of bitter come, lapping at the droplets that escaped to run down his chin, watching Hannibal watch him with hooded, heavy eyes as he smirks up at the older man, enjoying how debauched he must look.

Then, as the sun comes up and Baltimore begins to stir outside, Alana Bloom drops by and the true nature of their relationship is revealed by Will standing in the kitchen in a shirt two sizes too big for him with kiss-damp lips and Hannibal’s mouth caressing his throat.

They don't realise she's there. Or rather, Will doesn't. Hannibal no doubt caught the scent of her perfume the moment she walked in - apparently she either has a key or Hannibal knew she was coming and strategically left the door unlocked. It's likely the latter, but Will doesn't know if he cares. He finds it hard to care about much when Hannibal is so close in his personal space.

He's got his eyes closed, coffee clasped in both hands, head tipped back to one side and Hannibal stands behind him, kissing his neck with deep, sensual movements. He has one arm around Will’s waist, fingers caressing the waistband of yesterday's boxer briefs, and the other is combing through Will’s dark hair, forehead to crown, lost in the moment.

Alana’s sharp intake of breath breaks into their haze and Will’s eyes snap open, shock punching through him like a lance. He had been so relaxed in Hannibal’s embrace that he hadn't heard the sound of her stilettos on the polished floors. He stiffens in shock, tries to pull away and hide behind the open refrigerator door, but Hannibal holds him in place with gentle yet firm hands, gazing at Alana coolly over Will’s shoulder.

“Hello, Alana. Did we have an arrangement?”

“You said… Breakfast…” She's blushing scarlet, furiously averting her gaze, and Will doesn't know whether to burst out laughing or hide his face in shame.

“Ah, so I did. My apologies. Perhaps we could reschedule?” Hannibal gestures to Will, still plastered to his front with no hope of escape, with mild disinterest as though he's a prior engagement that had slipped Hannibal’s mind. “As you can see, Will and I are in the middle of something…”

Alana doesn't hang around long enough to find out what that ‘something’ is. She flees down the hallway, muttering embarrasses apologies in her wake, and Will collapses against the counter as the door slams shut, mercifully freed from Hannibal's hold. Of course, as soon as they part he misses the warmth of his touch immediately.

“You planned that!” He accuses, pointing a finger with no care at all for how rude the gesture is. “You wanted her to find out!”

“Perhaps.” Hannibal shrugs - or rather, does his best imitation of a shrug, which is no more than the gentle incline of one shoulder. “It would have to come out sometime. You don't mind?”

“Does it matter? She knows now, we can't exactly take it back, can we?” He does mind. He's exasperated at Hannibal’s easy control of every situation, feels like his own autonomy has been sacrificed in lieu of warm embraces and peaceful nights. And he wonders now if it's a fair trade.

“Will. My Will.” Hannibal takes his shoulders and gazes very seriously into his eyes. “If I wronged you, then I'm genuinely sorry. I will speak with Alana, ask her to keep what she saw to herself. I should have considered your feelings on the matter.”

“No. Forget it,” Will shakes his head, pushes his hair back off his forehead and sips his coffee. “But I'm not dealing with Jack’s grade one meltdown when he finds out about us. You're on your own with that one. I'll be watching with popcorn.”

“A fair trade.”

Hannibal smiles, kisses his forehead, and Will’s exasperation transfers to himself, at his inability to stay angry at the other man for too long. They make breakfast together then drag each other back to bed.

They catch the totem killer and Will felt a shred of sympathy at the expression on the elderly man’s face as Will broke the news to him that he had murdered his own flesh and blood in horrifying brutality. The memory wakes him in the night a few days later and Hannibal strokes his hair until he manages to fall asleep again.

Will wakes one night in Hannibal’s drawing room, standing staring into the embers of what was a glowing fire mere hours earlier. They had drunk wine and cognac, kissed in the light from the flames, and Hannibal had brushed his fingers through Will’s curls until Will slept, lulled into a trance-like state on Hannibal’s chest. They had stumbled up to bed, fallen asleep in cashmere pyjama pants, and Will remembers getting up for a glass of water at some point. He had gone back to bed. He’s now far from the warmth of silk sheets and the fire in Hannibal’s bedroom that never seems to go out and he blinks hazily, wondering what happened to him.

“Will?” A light touch grazes his shoulder and he startles, chest contracting in panic. “Will, hush. It's only me. You're alright.”

He buries his head in Hannibal’s bare chest and inhales, smells cloves and cinnamon, feels his eyes burn with helpless tears that he forces back by sheer will. He won't let himself cry, not now. He hasn't cried for years, and waking with a start in the room he didn't fall asleep in isn't an excuse to start. A hand comes to the back of his head, holds him close and strokes the soft skin of his neck as Hannibal murmurs words of comfort into his temple.

“You were sleepwalking,” Hannibal says soothingly and Will shudders. He had known that but hearing it confirmed only freaks him out more. “Have you been doing that a lot?”

“Yes…” He swallows repetitively to try and draw some saliva into his dry mouth. “A cop found me once, in the road. And I woke up on the roof of my porch another time.”

He's not sure if he imagines it or if Hannibal’s hands tighten just marginally on him at that. One hand slides from his neck to his forehead, palm clammy and damp with sweat.

“You have a fever,” Hannibal observes with what sounds like a trace of concern in his voice. “You didn't have it when we fell asleep.”

“I have aspirin in my bag.” He's taken to bringing a go bag with him in his car these days when he dines with Hannibal, just in case. There hasn't been a single night where he's not had to go out and retrieve it at some point. “I'll get it.”

“When was your last dose?”

“Before bed.”

“You didn't tell me.” There's a gentle reprimand there, but Hannibal says nothing more and Will just shrugs.

“Didn't know I had to. I just felt a bit under the weather.”

“You must tell me these things, Will.” Hannibal turns his hand so the back of it is pressed now to Will’s forehead and he realises it's his own skin that is so sweaty and unpleasant. He wonders how Hannibal can bear to touch him like this. “Allow me to look after you.”

“I'm not good at that,” he manages a rough laugh. “Being taken care of.”

“You have spent too many years alone.”

“Yeah.” He doesn't mind being alone. But being forced into loneliness, as he has been for so many years of his life, is a different thing entirely. “Something like that.”

He nudges Hannibal’s hand away and rests his head back on his bare shoulder. Strong arms encircle his waist, hands delicately tracing his spine, pulling him in close and cracking him.

“Take me back to bed.”

“Will, I don't think either of us is in the mood for-”

“No. I don't want sex.” He rubs his stubble against Hannibal’s shoulder, enjoying the warmth of his body. “I just want you. I just want to feel…”

Safe. Sane. Not alone, just for a little while.

“Anything you want, beautiful boy.” Hannibal holds him tightly, as though he may struggle to release him. “I'll always keep you safe.”

Had he said those words out loud? He isn't sure, hopes fervently that he hasn't, but can't find the energy to care. Exhaustion is seeping through him, filtering out through his pores to permeate the air around them. He follows Hannibal up the stairs, trailing, led by a hand, rubbing his tired eyes and aching unpleasantly all over as though the flu is threatening to set in. He wants to sleep but isn't sure if his mind is in agreement with that desire.

“Have you been having hallucinations too, Will?” Hannibal asks a while later. Will is lying with his head pillowed on his chest, one arm wrapped around his waist, dozing gently. He nods, cheek rough against the greying hair on Hannibal’s chest. “For how long?”

He thinks of the stag.

“A while.”

Hannibal brushes his curls back off his face. His fever has broken and now he shivers with the cold; a warm blanket is pulled up around his shoulders.

“Perhaps you should see a doctor. Have a scan. We should attempt to get to the bottom of this.”

“I'm fine. It's just the flu.”

Hannibal doesn't respond and Will allows himself to drift, eyes half closed against the firelight. He dreams of his dogs and the stag, playing together. He dreams of his house in Wolf Trap and Hannibal eating dinner with him at his creaking table. He dreams of his boats, of the wild ocean and wilder winters. He curls close to Hannibal in his dreams and in reality, lashes fluttering on pallid cheeks and chest hitching with his breath as the night goes on.

Hannibal doesn't sleep. He watches the shadows dance across Will’s bare shoulders, kisses his temple, thinks long and hard. When Will wakes in the morning he's already downstairs cooking breakfast for them and doesn't comment when Will lounges in bed for a long time, pressing his fevered forehead to the pillows and wishing his body would stop aching so badly.

A few nights later, Will claws his way back to consciousness to find himself beneath a deluge of freezing water and he panics, clawing at his surroundings and making a sound akin to a wounded animal. There's water in his eyes, his mouth, he feels like he's drowning.

“Will, Will, please. Calm down.”

It’s Hannibal, and Will falls silent, still struggling weakly. His teeth are beginning to chatter and he can't cut through the haze of fever to work out what's going on. When he finally blinks his eyes into focus, it's to see Hannibal standing in the shower, fully clothed including pocket square, fabric plastered to his skin and hair sticking to his forehead, holding him up with firm arms around his waist. Will is stripped of his shirt and pants, just in his boxers and he shivers violently, pressing close to Hannibal in search of body heat.

“W-what's going on?” He pulls away from the water as much as he can, shaking his head like Winston after a bath, hair sending droplets everywhere. “Stop - stop, please!”

He's shivering so badly his legs buckle and Hannibal holds him steady, against him, stroking his wet hair and hushing him.

“You have a high fever. I needed to bring your temperature down quickly, I was concerned you were going to fall into another seizure or unconsciousness.”

“Stop. Please. It's too c-cold.” His teeth chatter so hard he bites his tongue and he grips Hannibal’s soaked clothing with a choked sound of pain.

“Very well. Let me take you to bed, you need to sleep this off.”

Hannibal strips him quickly, rubbing his arms and legs with a towel while he stands and shivers, wet hair dripping in his eyes, and moments later he's back in bed and swathed in a cashmere blanket that feels softer than clouds.

Hannibal places a perspiring glass of water into Will’s hands and watches as it's drunk down greedily. He wipes stray drops from the corners of Will’s lips and leans in to kiss him once he's done.

“Lie back. Try and sleep. The medicine will take effect soon.”

“What's happening to me?” He’s not asking Hannibal directly; the question is posed to the ceiling. Or the walls. Or the fireplace. Or the stag that lurks in the shadows, watching. Always watching.

“You're unwell,” Hannibal brushes his hair off his forehead, urging him to close his eyes with gentle touches and soft words. “And you'll get better. But you need rest. Tomorrow we shall visit a consultant that I know, and take it from there.”

“Don't leave me alone,” Will’s breath forces its way from his lungs in harsh pants; he fists the sheets spasmodically and tosses his head from one side to the other. He's shivering again, soaking Hannibal’s sheets with sweat. “Stay here.”

If Hannibal stays, the nightmares might not come. He might be left in peace to sleep this off. He pushes himself up onto an elbow, gropes for Hannibal and presses his face into his stomach, the soft cashmere of his t-shirt feeling like balm on his overheated skin. When he pulls away, there's a damp patch where his forehead has been.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mortified, but Hannibal simply strokes his hair again as he loves so much to do. “I'm so sorry. I can go…”

“You'll go nowhere.” Hannibal pushes him back to lie down and draws the covers back to climb in beside him. “You will stay here with me and I will look after you. You'll sleep, and you'll feel better in the morning, yes?”

The way he says it sounds so certain that it nudges Will closer to sleep and he curls at Hannibal’s side, sighing as he tries to keep his tremors under control. The way Hannibal’s voice had moved around the words left no room for argument and Will doesn't have it in him to try. He's exhausted, aching, verging on emotional, and just wants to collapse and not get up for a very, very long time.

He doesn't realise it, but he's asleep within minutes.

•••

The scan shows nothing of note. The consultant doesn't seem overly concerned and Will leaves his office with a lingering feeling of foreboding - if nothing physical is wrong with him, is he just succumbing to some new form of crazy?

Abel Gideon escapes from psychiatric care at the BSHCI and Alana Bloom is put into protective custody. Will finds he isn't as concerned as he thought he would be. Hannibal is unruffled, as always.

They spend a lot of time in each other's company, between therapy sessions and the sheets, and Will soon can't shake off the idea that he's getting to know Hannibal in a way nobody ever has done before. And in a sense, that's mirrored back to him in the way Hannibal seems to speak directly to his soul without even having to try.

“I've hurt people, Will,” Hannibal says into his skin one night as they lie among silken sheets and a fire burns in the hearth. “I am no innocent.”

“So have I,” Will watches the shadows dance across the ceiling. One of them takes the form of a stag. He's warm, but not fevered - at least for now.

“You know not who I truly am,” Hannibal kisses his bare shoulder and strokes his hair back from his forehead. Will turns his head to steal a kiss.

“I know who you are to me,” he says and he means it with everything he has. “That’s all that truly matters.”

“Beautiful boy,” Hannibal says against his mouth and there’s reverence in his words. His lashes are dark on his cheeks, fluttering as they kiss, and Will clings, pressing closer in his quest for shared body heat. “Your dogs must miss you tonight. How many nights have you spent away from them?”

“A few.” A few too many, in truth, but Alana coolly agreed to check in on them and he’s feeling too selfish to disentangle himself from Hannibal to go and relieve her. He doesn’t want to go back to the emptiness of Wolf Trap, even though his dogs make it feel like home. Anywhere without Hannibal feels too cold these days, too bare.

“I'm lonely,” Will whispers, and he sure it would be easier to admit one of the deadly seven than confessing to the sin of loneliness. Hannibal cups his jaw with his fingertips and kisses his cheek, drawing him close.

“You will never be alone again, _mon coeur,_ ” he replies softly. “ _L’amour de ma vie. Beau garçon. J'adore tout ce que tu es.”_

Will melts against him, falling. His skin is on fire where it's touching Hannibal’s and he aches for the burn. He lets Hannibal take him, sweetly, rough and deep but with such tenderness that it makes him hide his face in his forearms and breathe deeply so he doesn't end up doing something truly embarrassing like crying. In the afterglow, Hannibal stands nude by the fire and watches as Will curls among the sheets, cat-like and sated.

“How are you like this?” Will murmurs, almost rhetorical, almost to himself. “Other people, they… They don't like me. They're afraid of me. I push them away. But you… I feel like I'm in Hell half the time these days, like I can't claw my way back to reality. But you don't shy away from it. You reach out and pull me to the surface.”

“And I always will.”

Hannibal sips his glass of Scotch. He had wandered down to the kitchen while Will was still catching his breath, pouring them both two fingers each, and Will watches him drink now, one arm braced on the mantelpiece above the fire, weight on his left leg and hips tilting deliciously to one side. It's as relaxed as he ever sees Hannibal, when they've finished having sex, and the way the firelight plays over his skin and highlights the curve of his ass and the planes of his muscles makes Will’s mouth water all over again.

“You're not in Hell, Will.” Hannibal sits down on the edge of the bed, combs Will’s curls with one hand and kisses his forehead. “ _L'enfer, c’est les autres._ Hell is other people, Will Graham. And to me, that is all people other than you. I will always help you to the surface and help you catch your breath. And if I cannot, then I will sink with you. We will drown together.”

“Don't.” Will blinks rapidly, misty-eyed. “Don't make promises you can't keep.”

Hannibal kisses the back of his hand, brushes his lips across Will’s knuckles.

“I always keep my promises, beautiful boy. Always.”

Will sleeps in his arms, nightmare-free.

And so they’ll go on. Hannibal’s slow seduction will be a draw to Will for a long time to come. They’ll bring out both the best and the worst in each other, and accept every aspect of both without question. Will consults with Jack in his endeavour to help save lives, at the expense of his own and Hannibal is there to catch him when he falls - although not always purely altruistic in his intentions.

They’ll love each other, for better and for worse, and they’ll betray each other. But in the end, they’ll come back together in a way only they know how to do and the world will continue to turn beneath their feet. Hannibal and Will, the darkness in them coming together to create a new light, one only they can see and one they will protect at all costs.

Until death do they part.

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has followed this story, and for the warm welcome to the fandom! ♥ I hope this was enjoyable reading, and I have a few more ideas in mind for this beautiful pair.
> 
> If you want to chat with me about my work or have any prompts, find me on [Tumblr](http://coffeeandcas.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](http://twitter.com/coffeeandcas)!


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